


Oswyn and the Elf

by MsBarrows



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Bromance, Depression, Disability, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Torture, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Post Game, Recovery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-06 17:04:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 40
Words: 121,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsBarrows/pseuds/MsBarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oswyn, Bann Sighard's son, has been having a hard time dealing with the aftermath of the abuse he suffered during the Blight Year while imprisoned by Rendon Howe, both physically and emotionally. That all begins to change after a random encounter with an elf named Varel Baern, late of the Blackstone irregulars, which leads to a growing friendship between the young nobleman and the equally young ex-mercenary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write a story focused on Oswyn ever since a teenaged version of him appeared in my "An Unquenchable Flame" story about young Alistair, though I had only the vaguest of ideas of what I wanted to explore about his character. Just recently I was looking at an elven NPC named Varel Baern, the elven recruit at the alienage entrance for the "Scraping the Barrel" quest from the Blackstone Irregulars, joked that I'd like to write a story about him, and then suddenly found myself with an idea for a post-game fic in which he and Oswyn meet. So the Varel we'll eventually be seeing in this story is not Seneschal Varel from Awakenings, but an entirely different Varel.

Oswyn walked slowly down the hallway, his cane ticking quietly against the stone floor each time he moved it. He ignored the occasional armsman or servant hurrying by, concentrating on keeping his balance, on putting one foot before the other. He also ignored the concerned glances some of them gave him, was merely thankful that they'd learned to leave him alone, to not offer their help. Help he didn't _need_ , nor want, now that he was able to walk on his own again.

He hesitated at the door to the dining hall, then grunted and turned, making his slow way inside to the sideboard. He helped himself to bread, cheese, a few sausages, wrapping them all together in a napkin and shoving the resultant bundle into one of the deep poacher's pockets in the heavy thigh-length cloak around his shoulders. He balanced the weight with a couple of apples in the pocket on the other side, then made his way back out of the room, feeling his father's eyes on him from the head table, but choosing not to acknowledge him. Easier to ignore him, too, then to look his way and have to exchange greetings, perhaps be drawn into conversation, when all he wanted to do was to get away somewhere where he didn't have to deal with people, not even to hear them walking along the corridor outside his rooms.

Oswyn continued on, out of the central keep by a side door that led to the stable courtyard. Only there did any of the servants pay him attention, a stable-boy who was busy cleaning the cobblestones straightening up and taking a few steps in his direction. "D'ya want your horse, ser?" he asked.

"Please," Oswyn stood, and stopped where he was, leaning heavily on his cane and waiting. Once he would have waved off any groom or stable-boy, strode easily into the stables to tack up his own mount, a fractious young stallion that had been his pride and joy. But that stallion was a thing of the past now, along with his ability to walk without pain, or to lift a heavy saddle onto a horse's back. So he waited, until the boy returned at a trot, leading the gentle-paced gelding that was his mount now. Its head lifted in recognition as it came close, and he smiled, already reaching into his pocket for an apple for it. It was a good horse, just not the one he wished he was still able to manage.

He managed to mount by himself, at least, wincing at the pain of protesting joints as he climbed up into the saddle. It was better once he was up, his weight off his legs, riding being one of the few activities he could still perform without excessive pain. He thanked the stable-boy, asking him to put his cane away inside the stable doors to await his return, and set out, riding at a slow pace along the road heading south-west from the castle.

It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny, and he found his tension ebbing away as he rode along, away from the castle, away from his worried father, and the stares and glances of the people who'd known him all his life. Looks that he was sure held too much of pity or horror, since the events of the Blight Year. Looks he was always painfully over-conscious of the few times each week that he had to leave his rooms.

Abruptly he changed his plans, turning off of the main road and onto a track, and from thence into the maze of forest trails, taking a route that circled to the west and then north again, circling well away from the castle before wending his way up the mountain in back of it that gave his father's castle and bannorn its name – Dragon's Peak. He rode at a slow but steady pace, and a couple of hours later reached the place he'd had in mind – a bare stone slope at the top of a towering cliff, with a bird's eye view down over the city of Denerim, crouched as it was at the mountain's foot to the north. A high spot, higher even than the famously tall spire of Fort Drakon.

He dismounted there, hissing at the protests of his legs, carefully looping the horse's reins around one branch of a handy sapling at the forest edge, then hobbled closer to the edge of the cliff, wishing he had his cane to steady himself. At least the rock was smooth and reasonably flat, though speckled with lichen and loose clumps of moss, with grass sprouting out of the cracks in its surface and a few drifts of fallen leaves which he carefully avoided, not liking to have anything loose underfoot. He stopped a couple of feet back from the edge, not bothered by the long drop before him – heights had never been a fear of his.

The marks of the darkspawn invasion were still clear from this height, some areas of the city still in ruins, others showing the signs of rebuilding – a mix of neat new well-laid streets in the better areas of the city, and maze-like warrens with narrow streets in the poorer sections. In the worst-off areas, he knew, people were still squatting in the ruined buildings, shoring them up as best they could to make them at least semi-habitable, building little sheds and shanties in whatever reasonably flat space remained. It would take years to rebuild it all; not that it would never be the same. Not with so many having died, trapped in the city by the sudden advance of the darkspawn horde. The streets had run with blood, it was said, both of its inhabitants and, later, of the darkspawn, as they were killed by the relieving army from the southwest.

He'd been well out of it by then – not only out of the city, his father having taken him home to recover as soon as the Landsmeet ended, but _out of it_ , lost in the fever-dreams his infected wounds and weakened state had thrown him into, following his part rescue, part escape from Howe's hands. He shivered, eyes moving unerringly to the roof of one of the undamaged buildings far below, one that seemed but a stone's throw away from the base of the cliff, set in a small walled enclosure nestled against the sprawling grounds of the royal palace. The estate for the Arling of Denerim, a seat that had been vacant since Rendon Howe's death.

Even the thought of the man, dead over a year now, was enough to make Oswyn feel ill; both nauseous and afraid, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin. Nauseated at the memories of his time in that sick bastard's hands; afraid, because he hadn't _seen_ Howe die, and part of him still feared waking up to find his current freedom a dream, feared finding himself back in the nightmare of pain and stinking darkness, in the dungeons hidden away under the estate far below.

Memories came rushing back; of how simply it had all started, with him heading off to Denerim to look for his milk-brother Miles, who'd disappeared there following a brief visit home after his return from Ostagar – one of very few Dragon's Reach men who had survived the debacle there, and only then because he'd been among the reserves, not with the main force. The reserve soldiers that Loghain had ordered to quit the field and retreat northwards, rather than attempting a rescue of the embattled King Cailan and the other half of the army, something Miles had spoken bitterly of during his visit home.

His search for Miles ended in a dock-side bar when he accepted a drink from someone who'd seemed sympathetic about the loss of his friend. He'd woken some time later to find himself in a stinking cell with a pounding headache, and quickly realized he'd been drugged unconscious. He hadn't been scared at first, he remembered, just angry and disbelieving. He'd been sure some kind of mistake had been made, and waited impatiently but quietly for someone to show up so he could get himself freed again.

Not that it would have made any difference even if he'd made a commotion and shouted his head off. He'd been _disappeared_ , kidnapped off to the private dungeon of Arl Rendon Howe who, he learned over the long weeks of his imprisonment, had very sick ideas of entertainment, most of them revolving around pain; the pain of others, not of Howe himself.

He would have died there too, eventually, if it hadn't been for the Grey Wardens. He still remembered the look of horrified recognition in Katherine Cousland's eyes as she and her companions cut through the leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles, freeing him from the rack where he had been in the process of being tormented yet again. They'd done what little they could for him before continuing on in search of Howe, leaving him to either await real rescue – if it came – or attempt escape as he was. The choice had been an easy one. Before they were even out of the room he was grimly crawling for the door. He'd only made one stop on the way out, to remove a knife from one of the bodies they'd left scattered across the floor when they'd burst in and killed his tormentors. If Katy and her companions failed, he had felt that he'd sooner kill himself then fall back into Howe's hands.

He'd managed to crawl up out of the dungeons, finding the ground floor of the estate inhabited only by the dead. He'd been halfway along the hallway to where he remembered the main entrance as being, from past visits here when it had been the home of Arl Urien and his son Vaughan. Then he'd heard armoured feet running, and loud excited shouting, and quickly crawled into a side room to hide. An open window and a short but painful fall got him out into the grounds of the estate; there he'd found refuge in a drainage tunnel under the wall, blocked with a grate partway through and barely wide enough for him to squirm into, feet-first, but at least getting him hidden away out of sight. Only then had he finally let himself pass out for a while, exhausted from the effort it had taken to get even this far.

Cold and wet woke him; it had been night, and raining, a cold drizzle. He was burning up with fever, the filth in the tunnel having already started infections in his open wounds, at the same time as his body was shaking from the chill of the water flowing under and around him. He'd somehow crawled back out of the tunnel, then along the base of the wall, up a set of external stairs to a watchtower at one corner of the grounds, and from there dropped down over the wall, a much longer drop than the one out of the window had been, with a subsequently harder landing, on cobbles, not soft earth. The sudden additional pain of a badly twisted or perhaps even broken ankle had actually been a minor blessing, snapping him back out of the dazed state he'd been slipping into. He'd rallied enough to begin crawling again, dragging his useless legs behind him as he moved away, away from the estate, away from the palace, towards the smaller estates and the clustered townhouses of the nobles.

He remembered pulling himself along the street, fingers digging into the seams between the cobblestones for surer grips. He remembered darkness, and startled voices, and the pain of being lifted and carried. His father's horrified voice, briefly, and then nightmares and fever dreams.

His next sure memory was not until some two weeks later, finally wakening again in his own bed at his father's castle, weak, half-dead, and still sick and in pain, but at least lucid enough to be aware of events again. Of the events that had happened while he was unconscious – the Landsmeet, Loghain's defeat, the march of the darkspawn on Denerim, the battle there, the death of the Archdemon – he only learned later, during his long, slow convalescence.

He had, eventually, been able to walk again. But never without pain; not after the things that had been done to him in that dungeon, at Howe's instigation and often directly under the man's hands. Not just the injuries from being racked, which would have been bad enough on their own, but other things Howe had done, involving sharp little knives carefully applied; his intent, as he'd made very clear to Oswyn, had been to cripple and maim, not to kill; at least, not to kill _just yet_. Not until he'd thoroughly broken Oswyn, and was certain there would be no further need of him, alive, to use as a means of controlling Bann Sighard.

Howe had succeeded at least in part, Oswyn found himself thinking, bitterly. He _was_ broken, in body if not quite in spirit. He'd been healthy, a talented warrior, his body responsive to anything he wished to do, his father's pride and joy. Now... now he was a cripple, in pain every day, his legs only barely able to carry his own weight. The weight of armour would be tortuous; handling the great two-handed sword that had been his favoured weapon was now impossible, his arms no longer having the ability to lift such a weight, much less move it through the necessary range of motions. The sword now hung on the wall of his room, a reminder of all he had lost in Howe's hands.

Oswyn took another step closer to the edge of the cliff, looking calmly down the dizzying distance to the rocky slopes far below that backed onto the grounds of the palace, Fort Drakon, a public park, and several of the larger noble estates. It would be so _easy_ to just take that one extra step, to fall and never rise again, ending his pain. But it would kill his father if he did so – the only thing that honestly kept him from working up the nerve to take that single remaining step. He shivered, and abruptly stepped backwards, then shouted in surprise and fear as his heel came down on a slick patch of wet leaves and skidded out from under him. He fell backwards, his arms flailing, and landed hard on his back, his head impacting against the ground. For a long moment all he could see was darkness with random flashes of light, hear nothing but a roaring in his ears, couldn't even breath after the shock of the fall.

He finally took in a great gulping breath of air, felt the blackness recede. He was sprawled out on his back, every joint protesting the abrupt movement and the impact with the ground. His head ached abominably, and he realized his lower legs were stick out beyond the edge of the cliff. He pushed himself backwards in heart-thudding fright, well away from the edge, before shakily sitting up. He swallowed, fighting back nausea as his head swum from the change in position, then reached up with shaking fingers to touch the back of his head, hissing as he felt a swelling already forming there. And dampness, which frightened him until he looked at his fingers and saw them damp with squashed bits of moss and black mud, not blood; his head had apparently come down on a mossy patch, not bare rock.

Too shaken and in pain to rise to his feet, he dragged himself further back from the edge of the cliff, to the eaves of the forest not far from where his horse was tied. He leaned back against a tree, hissing in discomfort when his head pressed momentarily against the bark. His back was protesting too, as well as most of his joints. He wasn't entirely sure he'd be able to mount his horse, much less ride it the long distance back to the castle. He definitely needed to rest for a while before making the attempt, give himself time to recover a little first.

It was cool there in the shade of the trees. He wrapped his cloak around him as best as he could for warmth, and sat quietly, though what he mainly wanted to do was cry. He hated feeling so damned _helpless_. Hated the pain. Hated his life.

Despite his intention of remaining awake, he nodded off a short while later, too exhausted to remain awake.


	2. Chapter 2

A hand touched his leg. Oswyn woke with a startled cry, reflexively trying to push himself away from the shape crouched down beside him. His head knocked against the tree behind him, and he yelped in pain as tender flesh smacked against rough bark.

The man – an elf, he saw, as his vision cleared – hastily backed off. "Sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you," a pleasantly deep voice said apologetically. "Are you okay?"

He had to clear his throat before he could answer, was surprised by the hoarseness of his own voice, thick with phlegm. "I'm not sure," he answered, honestly. "I fell, earlier..."

The elf nodded, his gaze following the scuff marks along the ground from where Oswyn lay over to the edge of the cliff. "Looks like you almost had a very _long_ fall," he observed.

Oswyn managed a pained smile. "Almost, yes," he agreed. "Almost split my head open, too, bouncing it off the ground."

The elf winced in sympathy. "Ouch. I have an elfroot poultice, if that will help," he added, and was stripping off a backpack to root around in a side pocket before Oswyn could say anything. He quickly turned up one of the familiar vials, its corked end dipped in red wax, and efficiently scored the wax with his thumbnail, then peeled it off and removed the cork. "Have a handkerchief or anything like that?" he asked Oswyn, raising an eyebrow.

Oswyn frowned and started to shake his head, then remembered the napkin he'd wrapped the food in that morning; food he had yet to eat, he realized. He dug out the napkin, gave it a shake to remove any crumbs, and folded it into a pad. The elf dribbled some of the poultice over the cloth, then Oswyn carefully dabbed at the back of his head, remembering too late the mess of mud and moss in his hair. "Damn," he muttered, looking at the mess he'd made of the napkin.

The elf smiled. "Perhaps you'd better let me take care of it," he said, and moved to crouch beside Oswyn, peering at the back of his head without touching it. "Nasty... that'll need to be cleaned before the poultice will do any good," he observed, and unhooked a water skin from his belt. "Lean forward. I'll have to use the corner of your cloak, if that's all right?"

Oswyn nodded, and did as instructed. He couldn't help tensing as the elf reached for him, and sat very still while he moistened a handful of the cloak and used it to pat away the muck, his touch surprisingly gentle. "All right, let's try the poultice again," he said after a few minutes, dropping the soiled edge of the cloak. Oswyn nodded and meekly handed him the pad of cloth. The elf swiftly refolded it to have a clean surface, damped it with more of the poultice, then carefully held it to Oswyn's head.

Oswyn sighed and relaxed slightly as the astringent liquid numbed his scalp. "Thank you," he said, reaching back to take over holding the pad in place.

The elf moved back to where his pack was sitting, and nodded in acknowledgement. "No problem," he said, recorking what was left of the poultice and carefully stowing it away again. He lifted and shook his water-skin, then squirted some in his mouth, before holding it out to Oswyn. "Need a drink?"

"Thanks," Oswyn said, accepting it one-handedly. He took a drink, then passed it back. After the elf had closed it and hung it back on his belt, he held out one hand. "Oswyn Aylridge. Thanks again for the help."

The elf smiled warmly at him, and shook his hand. "Varel Baern."

Oswyn's stomach choose that moment to make a very loud rumbling sound. Oswyn flushed. "Skipped breakfast," he muttered, and dug in his pocket, managed to extricate the food a piece at a time, putting everything down in his lap. "Hungry?" he asked Varel, holding up the hunk of bread.

The elf smiled. "Not particularly, but one thing I learned as a soldier, never turn down free food when it's offered. Unless it's being offered by your enemies," he added with a grin.

Oswyn smiled in amusement, and held out the bread so they could break it in two, then handed a sausage and some of the cheese over as well. The elf nodded in thanks, and began to eat neatly, alternating bites of the sausage with the bread and cheese. Oswyn, having only one hand for the task, settled on eating his bread and cheese first, then gnawing at the cold length of sausage.

He studied the elf as they ate. Varel was young – around Oswyn's own age, he thought, certainly no more than a few years older – with neatly kept shoulder-length hair of a light brown that verged on ginger, olive green eyes, and a fine pale complexion that wouldn't have looked out of place on a maiden; only his rather bushy eyebrows saved him from looking feminine. His dress, however, was that of a soldier – well-maintained leather armour, in shades of green and brown, with brass studs and buckles. There was a pair of long daggers, almost as long as a short sword in size, sheathed on each side of his belt, and his hands were calloused from frequent weapon use – the same sort of callouses Oswyn had once had, though now his hands were as soft as any scholar's. Oswyn belatedly noticed a fine long-bow and a quiver full of white-fletched arrows leaning against a nearby bush as well; the elf was quite well-outfitted.

It was only then that he realized something was missing from the area; his horse. He could see the ends of the leather reins still hanging from the branch he'd looped them around; the damned gelding must have chewed through them and wandered off. Hopefully the beast would find its way home safely. He bit back a curse as he realized that he was going to have a very long, painful walk home.

* * *

Varel eyed Oswyn curiously as he ate the portion of food that the other man had shared with him. Oswyn looked around the same age as Varel was, perhaps a few years older, with shaggy blond hair and a thick uneven scruff of stubble – almost long enough to call a beard – on his chin and cheeks and upper lip. He was rather gaunt looking, as if he hadn't eaten well in a long time, which together with his unkempt appearance seemed to suggest he was a vagabond of some kind. He was also quite plainly dressed, in the sort of simple clothing – tough leather boots and leggings, a plain tunic, and a heavy wool cloak – that any farmer or off-duty armsman might wear, though the outfit hung on him loosely, as if it had been made for someone broader of shoulder and thicker of leg. Yet the cloth and leather were both of good quality, evenly-dyed and well-sewn, too little-worn to be cast-offs, and the clothing was clean enough that it had likely been recently laundered, which spoke of someone at least reasonably well-off.

The man also wasn't carrying a weapon, unless you counted a small belt-knife hanging from his belt, and his hands were soft and smooth, his nails neatly trimmed and clean. Not someone who worked with his hands; not a peasant or craftsman. Nor did his hands display the sort of ink stains or writing callus that might have otherwise explained away the softness – not a scholar or a clerk then, likely not an artist either.

With his youth and size it was surprising that he wasn't a warrior, especially since Ferelden was largely a nation of warriors. Yet the alert way he'd looked around after first recovering from his startlement on waking, the swiftly evaluative look Varel had noticed him giving the elf's own clothing and gear, spoke of someone with some degree of training.

"So what brought you way up here?" Oswyn asked, looking curiously at Varel.

"The view," Varel said, and rose to his feet, taking a few steps towards the edge, staying safely back from the drop-off, but getting close enough that he could see much of the city sprawled out below. He gestured off to the northeast with the remaining end of his sausage, where he could just pick out the splotch of green that must be the vhenadahl. "I spent almost my whole life living in Denerim; most of it within the alienage. I used to look at this mountain, just barely visible over the rooftops... all clean unworked stone and green trees, and wonder what it was like up here. What it was like to breathe air that you weren't sharing with thousands of other people, to stand in some high place like this with the city spread out down below, instead of towering up around you like a prison."

He turned and smiled at Oswyn. "I signed up with a mercenary company during the Blight – the Blackstone Irregulars. Lucky timing on that, I was two days out of Denerim on my way to their training camp near Gwaren when the darkspawn reached the city. Did my training, served my term with them... but they'd changed leadership and I don't like the way the new leader is running them. So I mustered out a couple of weeks ago and have been making my way back to Denerim ever since. When I saw a turn-off heading toward the mountain, I decided to come and take a look from way up here," he said, then smiled again, and shrugged. "Figured you never can tell how your life is going to go, and it might be my only chance."

Oswyn snorted. "True words," he agreed, and brushed his hand against his leg to dust the last crumbs of bread off of it.

"How's your head feeling?"

"Sore still, but I'll live," Oswyn said, and carefully took the pad of cloth away from the back of his head. He looked at it, grimaced, then shook it out before stuffing it back into the pocket he'd earlier extracted it from, before looking off to the west and frowning at the angle of the sun. "I must have been out for longer than I thought... looks like I'll be spending the night on the mountain."

Varel gave him a puzzled look. "Surely it's not that long a walk back down?"

Oswyn grimaced, and tapped his thigh. "Bad legs. Can't walk very fast, or for very long," he explained, then flushed. "Speaking of which – I think I'm going to need help getting to my feet. Would you mind...?"

Varel blinked, then nodded and walked over, offering the man his hand. It took some effort to help him to his feet; it wasn't just his legs that were bad, Varel quickly realized, but his back as well – possibly more. Well, that certainly explained his lack of a weapon – little point in carry a sword or daggers when you couldn't do the footwork necessary to use them. He watched as Oswyn leaned on the tree he'd been sitting against, his white-knuckled grip and the deep lines around his nose and mouth making it clear that the effort of rising to his feet had him in pain. "How'd you even get up here?" Varel found himself wondering aloud.

"Horse," Oswyn said shortly, and gestured off to the side with one hand. "Damn thing seems to have chewed through its reins and wandered off while I was asleep."

Varel looked the way the man had gestured, and nodded in comprehension as he saw the two chewed-off lengths of leather wrapped around a branch a short distance away. "I'll help you get back down from here," he offered. "I'm in no rush to get back to Denerim."

Oswyn shot him a look, then nodded. "I'd certainly appreciate the help," he said, and frowned down at his legs, then smacked one fist against his thigh. "I hate having to accept help for what should be simple tasks," he said, then looked up and smiled ruefully at Varel. "Though I'd have to be stupid to turn down your help right now. Thank you. Again."

Varel nodded. "Well, I suppose the sooner we get started, the sooner we'll get down," he said. "Even if we do end up camping out overnight."

"Yes. I know a reasonably good place to camp... we should be able to reach it before dark," Oswyn said.

Varel picked up his gear and slung it over his shoulder, and they set off, of necessity travelling slowly. Oswyn was only able to walk for about half an hour before he needed to take a break, sitting down on a handy rock to get his weight off of his legs. While he rested, Varel broke free a branch from a tree and trimmed it into a usable staff, offering it without comment to the man.

Oswyn was able to make somewhat better progress after that, though he still needed frequent rests. The effort and the pain it cost was clearly telling on him by the time he led the way off of the trail they were on and picked his way through the undergrowth to a small grassy meadow, bordered on one side by a small stream and the other by a tumble of large boulders, the overgrowth of lichens, mosses, ferns, and even small saplings among the rocks making it clear it was an old, long-stable slide. The rocks and stream came together at the downhill end of the meadow, the stream forming a rock-edged pool there before spilling over and continuing off downhill.

"This is the place," Oswyn said. "I used to camp here sometimes in my teens. There's a sandy area near the downhill end of those rocks that's a good spot for a fire. The pond is a big enough for bathing and the occasional fish, and there's a rabbit warren in the woods beyond the slide," he explained.

Varel smiled. "I suppose that's my cue to do a little poaching."

Oswyn grinned. "I suppose it _is_ poaching. Not that anyone will care; there's always plenty more rabbits."

He led the way down to the sandy area he'd spoke of. The scattered remains of an old fire circle were still visible near, near a couple of larger boulders that would provide a decent wind-break from the evening breeze. "I'll get camp set up," Oswyn said. "It being about all I'm useful for right now."

Varel nodded, stripped off his pack and left it there, and headed back uphill to circle around the slide and see if he could find any rabbits. He glanced back downhill before heading into the forest, and could see Oswyn was already hard at work, using the end of his walking stick to nudge the scattered stones back into a circle.


	3. Chapter 3

Varel returned with a good-sized rabbit to find that Oswyn had done a lot more than just get the rocks back into a circle and a fire lit; he'd gathered cattails from the stream, and had separated the roots from the stems and leaves, and the spiky tip, and was now weaving the leaves into small mats.

Oswyn looked up at Varel's approach, and smiled. "Nice rabbit," he said. "If you'll take care of cleaning it, I'll take care of cooking it."

Varel nodded, and took it off to one side to clean and skin, tossing the offal away into the forest, then washed the carcass off in the stream, before bringing it back to Oswyn.

"Good job," the other man said. "If you could also find a strong stick to use as a spit, and a couple of forked sticks to use as a rest...?"

"Certainly," Varel said, and headed off to the forest's edge to cut three sticks of the right size and shape. By the time he came back, Oswyn was just finishing preparing the rabbit, having stuffed it with an apple he'd produced from somewhere, cut in quarters, a handful of wild herbs, and the cattail tips. While Varel set up the two uprights, Oswyn tied the rabbit around the spit with some twisted lengths of cattail leaves, then they placed it over the small fire.

"That will take a while to cook," Oswyn said. "We can eat those while we wait," he added, and pointed at the pair of mats he'd woven, each holding a handful of the roots. At the elf's look of incomprehension, he smiled. "They're edible, raw or cooked" he explained, and demonstrated, picking up a root and scraping it clean with his belt knife before biting off a piece and chewing it.

Varel tried the same, and found it to be crunchy and very plain in flavour, somewhere between a potato-like starchiness and a greener flavour, like celery or cucumber.

"You can just spit out the fibrous parts," Oswyn added, right before doing so himself.

They ate in silence, peeling and eating the roots, while the rabbit slowly cooked. Oswyn turned it at regular intervals so it would cook evenly. It was smelling very good by the time the man judged it well enough done, and removed it from the fire. He laid it down on one of the mats, then cut the ties and removed the spit, before sharing out the meat and the contents of the cavity evenly between the two mats.

It was as delicious as it had smelled, Varel quickly decided, the meat infused with the flavour of the apple and the cattail tips, which were rather like baby corn in size, texture and taste. The appreciative noises he made won a big grin from Oswyn. "I'm not half-bad as a campfire cook," he said.

Varel nodded. "Far better than I would be; the closest I ever got to cooking was doing my turn at scullion duties for the camp cook."

Oswyn smiled again. "Highly talented at peeling potatoes, scraping carrots, and chopping up turnips and cabbage?"

Varel grinned and nodded. "That would be me," he agreed. "Hand me a vegetable and I likely know how to peel or chop or grate it, or otherwise prepare it for cooking, but don't ask me what to do with it as far as the actual _cooking_ part goes. Boiling water for tea or slicing up bread and cheese is about my limit."

Oswyn laughed.

"So what were you doing way up there?" Varel asked, and paused a moment to lick a spill of drippings off his thumb. "Just after the view, like I was?"

"No," Oswyn said, and frowned down at his own fingers as he carefully stripped some more meat off the bones. "I just... needed to be alone for a while. _Really_ alone, far away from even the sound of other people." He glanced up, fingers still pulling off shreds of meat, and smiled crookedly. "Odd, I know, going off to be alone in the one spot in Ferelden where you're actually able to see the largest number of people at once." He looked back down, gathering the bits of rabbit together, and shrugged. "It made sense at the time."

Varel nodded slowly. "Growing up in the alienage... there were always other people around. A lot of them, all packed in together, sometimes entire families occupying a single small room, with just room enough on the floor for them to lie down and sleep at night. Privacy – real privacy – was a rare thing. A lot of us had places we'd go, when we wanted to be alone... holes in foundations, perches on walls, little gaps between the buildings, places high up on the roof, that sort of thing. Some place where we could at least have the illusion of being alone, for a short while."

Oswyn had looked up again while he spoke, and slowly nodded. "Yes. Just like that, I suppose, except I'm lucky enough to have this whole mountain available as a roof top. Not many people come up here; a few hunters, the odd guard patrol. That's about it. Considering how close to Denerim it is, it's almost surprisingly empty and wild."

Varel nodded. "I suppose people are frightened off by the stories."

"Stories?" Oswyn asked, looking puzzled.

Varel looked at him in mild surprise. "You haven't heard the stories? There's a lot of them. About it being named Dragon's Peak because there's a dragon that inhabits the peak, and if you're unlucky you'll find and wake it, and end up as it's lunch. Then there's the one about the mountain being haunted by the ghosts of a garrison of soldiers that were eaten by such a dragon, and if you're on the mountain after dark, they'll try to scare you to death, or drive you off a cliff. Other stories, too."

"Really?" Oswyn asked, sounding surprised, then shook his head. "Why did _I_ never hear these stories?" he wondered. "Though I suppose it's a good thing I never did, or I might never have been brave enough to spend much time up here when I was young and gullible. And that would have been a shame... I love this place," he added, looking around in a way that clearly took in more than just the little meadow where they were.

By the time they'd finished eating, it was full dark. For all it was summer, the night was a cool one. Oswyn built up the fire a little with some of the wood he'd gathered earlier while Varel was hunting, then wrapped himself up in his cloak and lay down where he was. "It will be warmest on this side," he pointed out as Varel dug his own cloak out of his backpack. "The heat reflects off the rocks."

Varel nodded, and once he'd donned his cloak took advantage of the unvoiced invitation, moving around to that side of the fire and stretching out near to Oswyn, their heads close together and their feet pointing off to either side of the fire. He tucked his pack under his head as a pillow, then after a moment sat up, extracted some of his spare clothing, and bundled it together in one of the shirts before holding it out toward the other man. "Here," he said. "A better pillow than bare dirt."

Oswyn took the bundle. "Thank you," he said gravely, and tucked it under his head.

They both fell silent again. Equally exhausted from the day just past, they quickly drifted off to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Oswyn was in pain when he woke; every injured joint protesting and stiff, the cold of the morning settled deep into them. He'd woken enough to build up the fire again at some point in the night, but it was now down to nothing but grey ashes. He tried to sit up, and groaned at the paint that trying to move caused him.

Varel started awake at the sound, then sat up and looked around, blinking sleep-gummed eyes owlishly for a moment before a look of recognition crossed his face. "Oswyn," he said, and frowned, taking in the man's stiffness and pained expression. "You okay?"

"Not really," Oswyn said, and grimaced. "My injuries don't react well to cold."

Varel nodded, and quickly set to rebuilding a fire. He dug in his pack once it was lit, pulling out a small metal pan, which he carried off to fill at the stream then set on a rock as close to the flames as he could manage. He frowned at Oswyn, who was still lying on his back with his eyes shut, shivering slightly, then took off his own cloak to drape over the man.

Oswyn's eyes snapped open, and he smiled crookedly as he saw what Varel was doing. "Thank you. Again. I have a feeling I'm going to be saying that a lot more today."

Varel grinned. "You're welcome," he said, liking the fact that Oswyn _did_ think to say it; so many shem didn't, assuming that all elves would automatically be subservient to them. He moved to squat down on his haunches by the fire, keeping an eye on the pot. Once the water started to steam, he added some tea leaves from a canister, and a dollop of honey, stirring it with a clean length of stick until it had brewed to a rich dark brown shade, then carefully removed it. He poured half of it into a tin mug – also produced from his pack – then put the tin and pan aside while he helped Oswyn to sit up and wrap both cloaks around himself, accompanied by much groaning and cursing on the part of the man.

That done, he handed Oswyn the mug, as the easier to handle of the two containers, and kept the pan himself, sipping cautiously from it. After a little while Oswyn gave a sign of relief, the deep lines bracketing his mouth smoothing out as he finally relaxed. "Better?" Varel asked.

Oswyn nodded. "Yes, much. Though I'm still not looking forward to the idea of standing, much less walking," he added with a grimace.

Varel smiled crookedly, then dug in a side-pocket of his pack, taking out some hard tack and dried meat. He offered some to Oswyn. "Not as tasty as what you shared with me yesterday, but having stuff that that travelled well was more important than the flavour," he said.

Oswyn grinned as he shifted the cup to his left hand so he could accept the offered food. "I'm used to the flavour of travel rations," he said, and dipped one of the biscuits in the tea to soften it. "Used to travel a lot, before..." he trailed off, and bit the moistened part off of the hard tack, while frowning down at his legs. "Well. Before this happened," he said, gesturing at his legs.

"What happened, anyway? Horse roll on your legs or something?" Varel asked.

"No," Oswyn said, shortly. He scowled at his lap, soaking and eating more of the biscuit before finally replying. "I was tortured," he said, very quietly.

"Oh," Varel said, startled. "What happened? I mean why... that is, if you're willing to talk about it. Sorry. I'm being nosey."

Oswyn smiled crookedly back at him. "Curiosity is natural," he said. He drank more of his tea, then sighed. "It happened during the Blight Year. My milk-brother, Miles, was at Ostagar – he was among the men sent aside with Loghain Mac Tir, so he was also one of the survivors. He came home on a short visit, afterwards, bitter about what had happened there, how Loghain hadn't even _tried_ to save the king or the rest of the army. Then he went back to his barracks in Denerim and... apparently just disappeared. His mother got worried over not hearing anything from him after a couple of weeks, when she usually got at least one letter every week. She told me, and I went into Denerim to find him."

He paused, face going still and grim. "I poked around, asked questions, no one knew what had happened to him, not even his squad-mates. And then one day I accepted a drink from a stranger in a bar, and woke up in a dungeon, in the hands of a certain sick bastard named Rendon Howe."

Varel's head rose sharply. "Rendon Howe?" he asked, looking shocked. "I know someone, in the alienage, who'd survived that dungeon. His stories of what he witnessed there..." Varel shook his head, a bleak look on his face. "Nightmarish."

Oswyn nodded, slowly. "That's what it was, all right. A nightmare. One that didn't stop when you woke up, that lasted for days. Weeks," he said, bleakly, then shuddered. "I suppose I was lucky. I lived, after all. And am still sane. More or less. Not all were so lucky. Though there have been times..." he broke off, staring down at his legs.

"Times you envied the dead?" Varel asked softly.

"Yes," Oswyn said, giving Varel a sharp look. "How'd you know?"

"One of the men in the Irregulars... my training sergeant, as it happens. He'd been through a rough time a decade or so back, saw most of his squad wiped out, was taken prisoner, took a wound that festered and lost him his left hand, before he was finally ransomed back. He talked about it once, telling us that it could get pretty bad if we came up against the wrong enemy, or didn't look after ourselves. Anyway, he talked about how, during the worst of it, he envied those that had died, since they at least were free from worry and pain, while he wasn't."

Oswyn nodded, slowly. "Yes. That's exactly it," he agreed, then chewed thoughtfully on the strip of dried meat before continuing. "I tell myself that I'm glad to be alive, but I'm not sure I believe it. I can't believe it, maybe, when every day is a reminder of everything I've lost."

Varel nodded, but didn't comment. The two continued eating in silence, until they'd finished.

"Well, I suppose we'd better get moving, if you think you're up to it yet," Varel said.

Oswyn grimaced. "I have to be. It's going to hurt like Andraste's fire, but sitting here won't get it any better, or either of us any closer to home."

Varel smiled, and put things away in his pack, keeping out the pan long enough to carry over water to dump over the fire and extinguish it, which took a good few trips until they were both satisfied that it was completely out. Then Varel helped Oswyn to his feet, handing him the walking stick he'd cut the day before, reclaimed his cloak, and the pair set out, heading back to the road before continuing down the mountain.


	5. Chapter 5

They walked along in silence for a while, Oswyn moving slowly, Varel strolling along beside him at an easy pace. It was a fine morning, the sky clear save for a scattering of high clouds off to the west, still relatively cool but promising heat later on. Oswyn hoped they'd be down off this blighted mountain by then, and just hoped that his legs, still sore from all the walking he'd done the day before – not to mention this morning's chill – would last out the distance.

"So. Tell me more about this mercenary company you joined," he said.

Varel glanced over at him. "What would you like to know?" he asked, a touch warily.

Oswyn shrugged. "Anything. Why you joined. What the training was like. Where you served. Why you left. It'll help pass the time," he added.

Varel studied him for a moment, then nodded. "All right," he agreed. "That's reasonable enough."

The elf looked away, studying the road ahead of them, before he began to talk. "I was born and raised in the alienage, but I never much liked it there. Too crowded and noisy, and the _smells_... not that I always noticed that, not until I grew old enough to leave the alienage occasionally. Your nose kind of tunes most of them out, I suppose. But you definitely noticed how much better it smelled elsewhere in the city, and the rare time I made it out to the countryside... grass and growing things and fresh air, instead of old cooking and rotting food and chamberpots. Then I'd get back home, and be reminded of just how bad it really is there."

He fell silent for a moment, looking around the forest they were walking through. "Some place like this... with space, and green growing things... I wouldn't have minded something like this. But elves mostly stick close together in alienages, since we're little tolerated outside of them and there is at least some small safety in numbers."

"Since you like the wilderness, did you ever think of running off to the Dalish?" Oswyn asked interestedly.

Varel snorted, and smiled crookedly. "Once or twice. I think most elven children do, at one point or another. Very few elves ever actually do it, of course, and most of those come back. Maybe two or three aren't heard from again. But it's more likely they've found slavery or death than the Dalish, I would think."

He fell silent again, briefly. "The Dalish are a pretty dream to city elves, I suppose, but that's all they are – a dream. A dream of past glories that I doubt we'll ever regain. I'd rather live civilized, anyway. But I wanted out of the alienage – preferably something that would let me travel around and see the world a little. So not a shopkeeper, or a craftsman, or a farmer. I thought about becoming a travelling merchant of some kind, but that's a dangerous life, unless you can protect yourself or can afford to hire good guards."

His face hardened. "Elves are rarely allowed to learn the skills to protect themselves. During the worst of it in the alienage, there were even notices posted up – 'elves found carrying a sword will die upon it', or something along those lines. I've heard that when the darkspawn came, all the alienage elves had left to defend themselves with was belt knives and a few bows," he said bitterly, then sighed. "Anyway, I decided to try and get into the one occupation where I could count on being allowed to defend myself, and decided to try to become a man-at-arms. I found a few of the older elves who'd fought in the war against the Orlesian occupation, and managed to get a few of them to teach me what they knew; a little dagger work, some sword work – this was before blades were banned, a few people still had swords, though mainly I used a wooden practise blade. I won't claim to have been some great natural warrior or anything like that, but I did all right. Learned the basics, at least well enough to hope to get accepted somewhere for further training."

" _That_ was when I learned that no one hires an elf to be a guard or a man-at-arms. Even the city guard is wholly human, apart from a few servants back at the barracks. The army would take elves, but mainly as archers and cannon-fodder; not for serious fighters. I might have been able to locate a merchant or minor noble willing to take me on as a guard – if I'd had the training I was still trying to find, and some experience to go along with it," he said, and sighed. "So eventually I realized my only hope was to try for a place as a mercenary, where I'd get at least some training and experience, which might enable me to move on to a better position afterwards."

"So even though it involved fighting and travel, being a mercenary wasn't what you wanted?" Oswyn asked, fascinated.

Varel smiled. "No. Oh, the fighting and travel were certainly what I wanted, but it was the idea of my loyalty being up for sale that bothered me. I spent a while looking into what I could find out about different mercenary companies. Some are no better than bandits and ruffians; thugs for hire. I didn't want to end up in a group like that. I managed to narrow it down to a couple of mercenary companies with good reputations, one based here in Ferelden – the Blackstone Irregulars – and another lot up in the Free Marches. They both were known for keeping their word, not tolerating abuse of prisoners or non-combatants, willing to random their men back if they were captured in battle, requiring their men to be at least reasonably honest and honourable. No raping and pillaging, that sort of thing."

"And you got accepted to the Irregulars."

"Yes," Varel said, and smiled crookedly. "Luckily for me, since as I mentioned yesterday it at least got me out of Denerim in time to miss the invasion. Unfortunately their leadership changed around then; the original man who'd formed the Irregulars died, and his son took over. Except, it eventually came out, the father's death hadn't been natural. His own son killed him, in order to take over the Irregulars and run them _his_ way, which was focused on money first, everything else second. Honour, honesty, integrity... they're just words to him. Words whose meaning he doesn't care about. _Money_ is all he cares for," Varel said, a note of disgust in his voice.

"So you left."

"Yes, once I'd served out the term I owed them for my training."

"And now what?" Oswyn asked.

Varel shrugged, smiled. "Go back to the alienage, and hope my experience is enough to get me back out of it again."

"Would you go back into the mercenaries?"

"If it was the only choice, sure. If I could find another honourable company, anyway. Unfortunately they're rather thin on the ground."

Oswyn nodded. "Well... good luck with that, then."

"What about you?" Varel asked curiously, glancing over at Oswyn. "What's your story?"

Oswyn snorted, then grinned momentarily. "I should have realized prying into your past would give you allowance to pry into mine. But fair enough. Well... I'm my father's only child. My mother died in childbirth when I was three or fours years old, and he had no interest in remarrying. He took over a lot of my raising himself after she died; taught me my letters, taught me riding and started me on sword work, all that sort of thing," he explained, and smiled in memory. "He was always so proud of me. His 'big strong son,' he used to call me; I'm almost a full head taller than he is," he added with another grin. "The height is apparently from mother's side of the family."

"Anyway, things were pretty good for me. I had a few close friends, my milk-brother being closest of them all, since we'd grown up together. I was good with a sword; used a big two-handed one. Father had to find someone to teach me that once I settled on it as the weapon I was most comfortable with and wanted to learn. Father was a sword-and-board warrior, in his youth, so he couldn't help me with that himself."

"And then the Blight started up and it all went to the Black City," he continued, grimly. "A lot of my friends ended up dead, at Ostagar or elsewhere. And after that... well, I told you about the next part earlier. Howe and his dungeon. I was pretty badly injured when the Warden freed me on her way through, but I managed to make it out on my own, crawling most of the way. A patrol of city guards found me in the street, half-dead and delirious from infection in my wounds. Luckily one recognized me, so they brought me to my father. It was weeks before I was really aware of my surroundings again; months before I was able to sit up on my own, much less walk. I will never fully recover from what was done to me," he said bitterly, then continued. "Howe purposefully crippled me. He didn't want me dead; not right away, anyway. He wanted me in pain and unable to defend myself."

He fell silent then, swamped by bad memories. Of being bound and helpless while Howe made careful little cuts with tiny sharp knives. The pain of broken bones, of joints stretched and twisted out of true, of muscles purposefully damaged and allowed to heal awry so that scar tissue pulled painfully with every movement. His clothing hid the worst of the damage, leaving him looking normal enough – Howe had purposefully spared his hands and face, for whatever reason – but he knew where every scar and knot was, felt the permanent damage with every movement he made.

He remembered, too, Howe's words on one of the very few occasions the man had spoke to him. Normally he'd completely ignored Oswyn, not speaking to him, not listening to him, apart from his cries of pain. But he'd been talkative once, mainly muttering to himself, but at one point turning to look at Oswyn and gloating about how his disappearance was affecting his father, distracting him and preventing him from interfering. Interfering in what, Howe never specified, though Oswyn could make some guesses based on what he'd since heard of events prior to the pivotal Landsmeet that year. Howe had then talked about how if Sighard _did_ start paying attention again and began to become a nuisance, that perhaps Howe would send him some recognizable part of Oswyn, along with word that he yet lived. And then blackmail him into co-operation, holding the threat of further harm to Oswyn over Sighard's head. The sheer _relish_ with which he'd talked of doing so had turned Oswyn's stomach, as much as had the sadistic pleasure that Howe was taking in his physical torment.

He didn't even realize he'd stopped walking until Varel called his name. "Oswyn? You're pale as a ghost... here, you'd better sit down," the elf said, concerned, and looked around, frowning at the lack of anything like a rock or fallen log nearby.

"I'll need a hand to sit," Oswyn said, and gulped as he realized just how light-headed and nauseated he was suddenly feeling. "Or I could just fall over," he added as he swayed, right before Varel lunged over and grabbed him, steadying him. The elf manoeuvred him to the edge of the road, and helped him to sit down.

"Your hands are shaking," Varel observed, and frowned at Oswyn. "What's wrong?"

"Bad memories," Oswyn grated out, and started to shake in earnest. "I try not to think too much about..." he broke off.

"Put your head down," Varel said hurriedly, and pressed gently on his shoulder.

Oswyn leaned as far forward as his protesting back would allow. "Sorry," he choked out after a minute.

Varel said nothing, just dug into his pack and produced a small flask, which he held out. "Here, knock back a slug of that," he said.

"Thanks," Oswyn said, accepting it. He sniffed at it once – definitely something alcoholic – then did as told. It was some vile brew; the only good thing that could be said about it was that it was _strong_ ; the taste was sweet and heady, with a surprisingly bitter aftertaste. Strong enough to make him cough, and bitter enough to make his eyes water and mouth pucker. For a moment he thought it was going to come right back up again, then his stomach suddenly settled. He wordlessly handed the flask back, unable to speak for a moment. When he could, he gasped out, "What _is_ that stuff!"

Varel grinned as he put the re-stoppered flask back in his pack. "Chasind Sack Mead. Quartermaster of the outfit swore by if for all that ailed you. It's made of honey. Well, mainly honey."

Oswyn snorted. "I have a suspicion I don't want to know what the not-honey ingredients are."

Varel's grin widened. "Somehow, I never quite worked up the nerve to ask, myself. How are you feeling now?"

Oswyn sighed. "Somewhat better. We might as well take a short break since I'm sitting down anyway; I'd have needed one not too much later anyway."

Varel nodded. "All right. Well, if we're stopped anyway, I'm going to go water a bush; I had far too much tea for breakfast."

Oswyn nodded. "I'll just sit quietly here," he said, very solemnly.

Varel grinned. "You do that," he agreed, and rose to his feet, walking further off into the bushes.


	6. Chapter 6

When Varel returned a few minutes later, he could see that Oswyn had regained his composure. "Ready to move on again?" he asked.

"Yeah, though I need to tap a keg first myself," Oswyn said, and accepted Varel's help to get back onto his feet before limping off into the bushes.

Once he had returned, they resumed their walk down the mountain, silently now. Varel regretted a little that the lengthy views across the countryside below that he'd enjoyed during their walking the day before were now cut off by the heavy forest that cloaked the lower slopes of this side of the mountain. He couldn't see any great distance at all; just the road winding away out of sight ahead of them, and the trees and undergrowth around them, the branches of the overarching trees almost meeting overhead. The day was warming quickly, and he hoped the shade of the trees would provide some coolness to offset the lack of a breeze down here under them.

It was at least a pleasant walk, if rather slower than he would normally proceed. Judging by the faint grimace and occasional hisses of pain from Oswyn, it was faster than the other man felt comfortable moving. But then, by what he'd seen so far, just _standing_ was uncomfortable for the human.

He frowned slightly, wondering just what had been done to the man. He'd heard the stories Soris had told, after being released from those same dungeons by the Warden, of things he'd seen with his own eyes, or heard described by the other prisoners. The elf had been lucky – if being jailed in that hellhole for almost a full year could be called 'luck'. Vaughan Kendalls had disappeared before he could take his vengeance on the elf; Arl Howe had not cared about his presence, if he'd even been aware of it, leaving Soris to suffer only the infrequent attentions of bored jailors rather than more outright torture. He'd been largely forgotten by everyone.

This Oswyn, on the other hand – by his words he'd been specifically targeted by the Arl, a man whose name had become a byword for inventive cruelty since the events of the Blight Year. Varel glanced at him, remembering what he'd last said before turning so pale and shaky, about Howe wanting him alive but crippled and defenceless. He felt a little ill even considering what sort of treatment those words implied. It certainly explained why the man had such difficulty in moving. And by the sound of it, he'd been a well-trained warrior beforehand. Varel tried to imagine how he'd feel if his hard-won ability to protect himself was lost – not just lost, but purposefully destroyed, so that he was no longer able to lift bow or wield his daggers, not even able to _run_ from danger. Varel shivered, horrified by the prospect.

Oswyn hadn't lost the awareness he'd learned as a warrior, however – it was he, not Varel, that first stopped and lifted his head, listening. "Riders approaching," he said. His hand tightened around the staff in his hand, but apart from that he looked relaxed and unworried. He glanced at Varel as the elf's hand started to reach for his bow. "Should be friendly – one of the patrols."

Varel raised one eyebrow slightly. "They're not guaranteed to be friendly to _me_ ," he pointed out, but left his bow unstrung on his back, though he let his hands drift close to the hilts of his daggers.

"You're safe enough – you're with me," Oswyn said, smiling slightly.

Varel's other eyebrow rose, but he didn't have time to work through just what that meant before the mounted patrol came into sight, rounding a curve in the road further down the slope. They were wearing matching armour and tabards in the colours of the bannorn – a dark blue-grey, with the pale yellow moon-and-stars device of Dragon's Peak. They sped up when they spotted the two men in the road ahead of them, and Varel tensed further.

The rider in front raised a hand as they drew closer. "Ser Oswyn!" he called out, sounding relieved.

"Captain Lorne," Oswyn said, smiling slightly and nodding his head in brief salute as the men came to a stop a few steps away. Most of them ducked their heads in return, apart from a pair dealing with fractious horses.

Lorne looked Varel over briefly, then turned his attention back to Oswyn. "I am relieved to find you well, Ser Oswyn," the knight said gravely. "Your father feared the worse when your horse was found loose in the fields near the castle this morning, and it was realized you had not been seen since early yesterday."

Oswyn grimaced. "I suppose he's ordered everyone out to look for me," he said. "I'm afraid I had a small mishap yesterday, and the damned horse chewed through its reins and ran off while I was indisposed."

Varel felt surprised as the meaning of their words sunk in. He'd figured out from Oswyn's earlier words that his father was likely someone of some importance, as he'd talked of having a milk-brother, and having been trained in horsemanship and weaponry – all of which made it seem likely that his father was at least a well-off man-at-arms, someone's landed vassal. But by the sound of this... he was much more than that. There could only be one, perhaps two people with the power to order out the Dragon's Peak guards to look for a missing son – and, he belatedly remembered, Bann Sighard of Dragon's Peak was a widower with a single son, and hadn't there been some mention once about injuries to the son having been a good part of the cause behind him throwing in his support for the Grey Wardens...

Lorne, meanwhile, had turned his attention back to Varel. "And this is?" he asked, a touch suspiciously.

"A friend," Oswyn said firmly. "He came to my aid yesterday, and has been assisting me ever since," he explained, then turned to Varel himself. "I cannot thank you enough for the help you've given me – please allow you to repay you. I would like you to come and guest at my father's castle for a day or two, before you return to Denerim."

Varel was pleasantly surprised by the invitation; most humans wouldn't have thought twice about sending him on his way with nothing more than verbal thanks, perhaps a small coin if they'd been in a particularly generous mood. "I would be honoured," he said, giving Oswyn a formal bow.

Oswyn smiled. "Good," he said, then frowned momentarily at the mounted patrol. "Can you ride?"

"Very poorly," Varel confessed. "The Irregulars ran to foot soldiers; only the officers were ever mounted. I've only been on the back of a horse three times in my life. And one of those was actually a mule."

Oswyn laughed. "You'd better ride pillion then," he said, then turned and looked expectantly at the group of men. "Captain?"

Lorne nodded, once, and turned to look over his men. "Nichols, give your horse to Oswyn and double up with Sam. Kerr, you'll take the elf. Jorim, ride back to the castle to let them know that Ser Oswyn has been found."

One man turned his horse and headed off at a canter, while two others promptly dismounted. One led his horse over to Oswyn and helped him to mount, while the second borrowed a pair of bedrolls from the other men, fastened one on beside the bedroll already attached behind his own saddle, and quickly refolded the third into a pad to spread over top of both, forming a well-padded seat for Varel. He remounted and then quickly talked Varel through mounting up behind him, by which time Oswyn and the one named Nichols were both mounted as well, Nichols riding pillion without benefit of any extra padding.

"Just hold on tight," Kerr cautioned him quietly. "And try to keep your balance."

"I'll try," Varel said worriedly, and just had time to grab hold of Kerr's armour before the horse lurched into motion.

It took him a while to get used to the movement of the horse, and feel like he wasn't going to fall off at the next swaying step. Eventually he felt confident enough to look around. Oswyn was riding beside the Captain, the two men talking together in low voices... by the snatches of speech Varel could make out, Oswyn was giving Lorne an abbreviated description of the events of the previous day. Travel by horseback was gratifyingly faster than walking had been, even travelling at what was a comparatively slow pace for the horses, a smooth steady walk. They were already off the slopes of the mountain and into the low rolling hills spreading to the south from it, the forest beginning to thin, fields – both fallow and farmed – coming into view ahead.

After a while Oswyn dropped back to ride beside Kerr and Varel. He grinned affably at the elf. "Comfortable?"

"So far," Veral said. "Though I suspect I'll be sore if I'm up here for very long – why do horses have such blighted wide backs!"

That drew a laugh from Oswyn and the closest men - a friendly laugh.

Dragon's Peak castle came into view a short while later, a cluster of stone buildings perched on a precipitous hilltop overlooking a wide bend of the Drakon river. It had started out as a simple tower-keep centuries ago, and been added on to several times since, acquiring outbuildings and defensive walls, including one encircling a small village tucked in against the side of the hill, running from the water's edge on the west halfway around the base of the slope.

In all too short a time, it seemed, they were riding up the hill to the entrance to the castle grounds; a distance that would have likely taken them the rest of the day on foot, at the speed Oswyn was able to walk, but which they had covered in a little over an hour on horseback.

The patrol stopped in the courtyard, long enough for Captain Lorne, Oswyn and Varel to dismount. The guards headed off to the stables with their horses, and Oswyn led the way indoors.


	7. Chapter 7

Oswyn glanced curiously at the elf once they got indoors, and hid a smile at the expression on Varel's face; he could tell the elf was impressed by his surroundings, but trying not to show it. Dragon's Peak might be only a bannorn, but anywhere else in the country, its size and wealth might well have justified it being an arling in its own right. Instead it was subservient to the much tinier – but even wealthier, and more politically important – Arling of Denerim.

Its wealth showed in the grandeur of the entrance hall, which soared a full three stories in height to a beautifully groined ceiling, the walls between the supporting columns cased in a polished wooden wainscoting from floor to waist height, then white-painted plaster up to a decorative line of molding two stories above, and plain smooth stone the remaining distance above that.. The floor was edged in polished stone tiles, around a central area of encaustic tiles with a motif based on the stars in the Dragon's Peak crest. Beautiful tapestries and martial trophies – swords, shields, banners, and so forth – lined the walls, and polished brass oil lamps hung on fine chains from decorative brackets at regular intervals along both walls.

He didn't have a chance to say anything to Varel before his father came hurrying into the hall from the direction of the dining hall, a relieved smile crossing his face. "Oswyn!" he called out, and hurried across the floor toward their small group. For a moment Oswyn thought his father was going to forget his dignity and embrace him, but then Sighard came to an abrupt stop, and simply gave him a sharp head-to-toe look. "You're well?" he asked, his relief still apparent in his voice.

"Yes, I'm fine, father. Tired and sore, but otherwise in good health. Thanks in no small part to Varel, here," he added, smiling warmly and gesturing toward the elf, then quickly performed introductions. "We encountered one another on the mountain yesterday after I mislaid my horse, and he was invaluable in helping me with the return journey," he explained in brief, then added, to be sure the point was clear to his father, "I owe him a debt of thanks. I have invited him to stay here for a day or two before he continues his journey."

To his pleasure and pride, his father didn't fail his expectations. Bann Sighard immediately turned to the elf and bowed formally to him. "If my son is in your debt, than no less so am I," he said. "With your permission, I'll have you shown to rooms near those of my son; I would ask you to join us for the evening meal, once I've had a chance to speak with my son of his adventures this last day. In the meantime you may freshen yourself up and rest or, if you desire, I can have one of the servants give you a tour of the castle."

Varel bowed gracefully. "I will rest, thank you," he said. "I have been on the road for some time, and it has been long since I last had an opportunity to refresh myself."

Sighard nodded, and signalled a nearby servant. After bowing briefly to both of them in turn, Varel allowed himself to be led off. Sighard turned to Oswyn and gave him another close look. "Do you need to rest first?" he asked, voice gentle and just a touch worried.

Oswyn smiled reassuringly at him. "Truly I am well, father," he said. "Though I, too, could use a change to bathe and change before the meal. But come, we can talk while I do so, if you like," he said, and smiled even more warmly at his father than he had at Varel.

Sighard nodded his head, and followed Oswyn off to his rooms, to hear of what had happened to him since he'd set out the day before.

* * *

Varel was surprised at the rooms they'd given him; not just a simple guest room, but an actual small suite of rooms, well-decorated, consisting of a sitting room, a bedroom, and a bathing chamber. There was even running water in the bathing chamber, both hot and cold – he'd heard of dwarven plumbing, but this was the first time he'd actually encountered it. At least he _had_ heard of it, which made figuring out how to start the tub filling with water a much easier task than it might otherwise have been.

While the bath filled, he stripped off his stained and sweaty clothing, then dug in his pack, taking out his toiletries and his cleanest clothes; as long as he'd been on the road since leaving the camp near Gwaren, he didn't have anything left that was really clean any more. He gave them a good shake and hung them over a chair, wishing they were at least less wrinkled. Dining with Bann Sighard and his son at Dragon's Peak Castle – that was going to be a story to tell once he got back to the alienage! He shook his head in disbelief, and then went back to the bathing chamber.

A good long bath left him feeling considerably refreshed. He took some care in combing out and braiding his hair, and gave his clothing another good shaking out before dressing. Then, with nothing better to do, he spent some time in caring for his bow and daggers. Eventually there was a quiet knock on the door, and he answered it to find a servant waiting to lead him to the dining hall.

The dining hall was in an older part of the castle; the corridor outside of it had walls of rough-hewn stone, and stone-flagged floors, while the hall itself rose some two stories to soot-stained hammerhead beams, their ends carved in the shapes of stylized animal heads. The walls were plastered and whitewashed; one end wall was pierced by multiple glass-filled windows, and the other dominated by one of the largest fireplaces he'd ever seen. He was led to a table on a raised dais where Sighard and Oswyn were already seated, and seated to Oswyn's right.

Sighard, sitting to Oswyn's left, looked much more relaxed than he had earlier, while Oswyn had clearly taken advantage of the time to bathe and change as well. The clothes he was wearing now were much more in keeping with his rank; buff leather leggings and a linen shirt of blue, embroidered around the neck opening with the Dragon's Peak crescent moon and stars in gilt thread. He also had on a leather belt of tooled and gilded leather from which hung a belt knife with its handle covered in braided leather, a star-sapphire set in the pommel.

It made Varel feel all the more aware of just how poorly turned out he himself was, in clothes that were still noticeably wrinkled from being squashed in his pack for days, and clearly in need of laundering, as well as being nowhere near as fine as what anyone else at the table was wearing. At least he himself was clean and sweet-smelling, even if his clothes weren't.

Oswyn was obviously pleased to see him again, and welcomed him warmly. Bann Sighard's welcome was more restrained, bordering on formal, but it was not a cold one – more of a guarded one, he supposed. The Bann waited until the first course of the meal had been served before opening conversation. "My son mentioned that you served as a mercenary for a while... may I enquire what company you were in?" he asked politely.

"The Blackstone Irregulars," Varel said. "From the Blight Year until a couple of weeks ago."

"Ah, I know of them... they're based down near Gwaren, aren't they?" Sighard asked, looking interested. That led to a lengthy conversation – taking up much of the meal – in which the three men discussed mercenary companies and actions they knew of in which various companies had been involved. It ended up being a surprisingly pleasant meal, with far more food, and of a much higher quality, than Varel had ever sat down to before.

After the meal they stayed at table, drinking wine and talking, the conversation now moving on to how Varel had come to be on the mountain, and his and Oswyn's slow journey back down again. It was late by the time the story caught up to the present. Sighard nodded slowly. "I thank you again for the help you tendered my son," he said.

Varel smiled slightly, glancing at Oswyn, leaning back in his chair between them. "I doubt my help was entirely necessary," he said. "I believe Oswyn was in little real danger."

That brought a small smile to Oswyn's face. "The journey would have gone much harder without your help," he said. "I might still be somewhere on the mountain, even with men out looking for me, and I was ill-prepared to spend any time there. Your help may not have been absolutely _necessary_ – but it still made things considerably easier for me, and is very much appreciated."

"Just so," Sighard agreed, smiling at his son, then turned back to Varel again. "Please, remain here as our guest for at least a few days... I wish to reward you for your help before you move on again, and such rewards take time to assemble. If there is anyone you need to send word to, a letter can be carried to the city..."

"Thank you," Varel said, and smiled, shaking his head slightly. "There is no one. And I would be honoured to stay here for a few days."

Sighard smiled and nodded. "Good. I look forward to your company; I have quite enjoyed our conversation this evening. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I'll retire for the night," he said, standing up, and dipped a shallow bow in Varel's direction.

Varel hastily rose and bowed as well, more formally. "My thanks for your generous hospitality, Bann Sighard," he responded.

"Good-night, father," Osywn said, smiling warmly at his father but making no effort to rise to his own feet. Doubtless due to his injuries, Varel suspected, and remained on his own feet until Sighard had left.

"Well. Shall we sit up drinking, or also retire to our beds?" Oswyn asked, looking up at him.

"I suspect the latter is the wiser course," Varel pointed out, having already noticed how worn out Oswyn was looking. "It's been a long day."

"Let us be prudent then," Oswyn said agreeably, and began to lever himself to his feet, a task that obviously caused him some discomfort, though he did not ask Varel for any help as he had on the mountain.

They left the dining hall together, Oswyn walking slowly and with the aid of a cane, Varel matching his pace. "Do you know your way back to your room?" Oswyn asked.

"Only vaguely," Varel said. "There was a tapestry on the wall opposite the door that I'll recognize... a tall man standing in a dark forest, with a wolf curled at his feet."

"Ah, I know the one... I think it's meant to be Dane. It's just a few doors down from my rooms," Oswyn said, and fell silent for a few paces. "I used to live in a large suite up on the family floor. But my injuries and stairs don't get along particularly well, so I moved to rooms down here. They're smaller, but I don't need help to get to them. And I have a small walled garden of my own off of them," he explained. "They're nice enough," he added after a brief pause.

Varel nodded understandingly. "But your old rooms were nicer?"

Oswyn grinned. "Of course. Bigger and more nicely finished. Better lit, as well – this part of the castle was built when defence of the keep itself was still considered important; the windows are rather on the small side."

Varel laughed softly. Oswyn glanced sideways at him, mouth twisting in a rueful smile. "Rich shem problems, right?" he asked quietly.

That made Varel laugh louder. "Yes," he said, and grinned in amusement for a moment before his expression sobered. "The finest house in the alienage is probably not as nice as the servants quarters here," he said. "The rooms _I'm_ in..." he stopped and shook his head. "No one back at the alienage is going to believe that I was put in rooms so fine. Not unless I was there to _clean_ them, anyway."

That made Oswyn laugh, and smile at Varel again. Then he gestured at a tapestry on the wall to one side of them; the one Varel had described. "It seems that we've arrived at your rooms," he pointed out. "I'll say good-night to you here."

Varel nodded. "Good night," he said, and lifted one hand in farewell before heading into his rooms. Someone had been in them while he was away – a servant, he guessed. There was a clean nightshirt laid out on the bed, which had been turned down, and the armoire stood open, several clean outfits hanging inside it. A basket sat on the floor near the armoire, the towel he'd used earlier and the dirty clothes he'd left out beside his pack sitting inside of it. He smiled, and took the rest of his clothing out of the pack, adding everything to the basket, understanding that the basket would be taken away the next morning and everything in it laundered. He stripped out of his clothes, putting them into the basket as well, then pulled on the nightshirt and retired to bed.


	8. Chapter 8

It seemed like a dream, waking in such a huge bed in such a fine room. Varel just lay there for a little while, looking around at everything, before finally getting up out of bed. He went and made use of the bathing chamber, then looked over the contents of the armoire. All of the outfits were beautifully made, far finer than anything _he'd_ ever owned in his entire life. There was just enough signs of wear on them that he could tell they were someone's cast-offs. He touched the fine fabrics lightly, enjoying the feel of sueded leather, finely woven cotton, silk and even plush velvet against his hands. He wasn't at all sure which outfit was appropriate to wear, and finally settled on the second-plainest outfit, a set of thin leather leggings dyed black with a smocked cotton tunic of a rich blue colour embroidered in cream and gold. There was no footwear supplied, so he put on his own brown leather boots.

He emerged into the hallway from his rooms just in time to almost collide with Oswyn. Oswyn grinned. "I was just coming to see if you were up and about yet," he said, and looked Varel's outfit over. "That looks good on you," he said. "I thought my old things might fit."

Varel's eyebrows rose slightly. Judging by the size of these clothes, they must have been from when Oswyn was a teenager; he'd certainly long since outgrown them. "I thank you for the loan of the clothing," Varel said, bowing slightly.

Oswyn smiled again, seeming amused by Varel's formality. "Hungry for breakfast yet?"

Varel nodded and smiled back. "Of course," he agreed.

Oswyn led the way back to the dining hall. He was moving very stiffly again, Varel noticed – doubtless not recovered yet from his exertions of the last two days. They took the same seats in the dining hall as they'd occupied the night before, and servants quickly appeared bearing plates of food for the both of them – biscuits, sharp crumbly cheese, thick slices of ham, smoked fish, some fresh fruit, hot tea. There was a choice of honey, butter, or jam to have with the biscuits, which were still warm from the morning's baking. They both ate quickly and neatly.

After the meal Oswyn gave him a tour of the castle, or at least of the lower floors and the grounds; it was a long slow meandering stroll around the place. They stopped for a while in the armoury, where they sat and discussed different weapons for a while, and passed through the barracks, where the guards were welcoming of the pair and, somewhat to Varel's surprise, seemed genuinely pleased to meet him. Then there was the stables, where Oswyn spent some time walking up and down the rows of stalls, talking about the horses, and made a point of stopping to whisper to and touch several special favourites among the ones gathered there. Varel couldn't contribute much to that conversation, his own experience with horses being next to non-existent.

There was a lengthy stop in the smithy as well, where they leaned against one wall for a time, watching the blacksmith shaping something – an axe blade, Varel guessed by the shape – and then moved on again, taking a stroll around various workshops that occupied the castle grounds, where there was work being done with leather, or wood, or in one small well-lit chamber, paper and pen.

Oswyn led the way to the kitchens as noon approached, and they ate there, seated together at one end of a long worktable, Oswyn smiling and joking with the kitchen staff. The head cook was an amiable older woman, with a pleasant smile and a warm manner – she pressed a napkin full of sweet pastries on Oswyn when he rose to leave again, and he thanked her with a kiss on one cheek before tucking it away in one pocket.

He led his way to his own rooms afterwards, just a couple of doors down from where Varel was. They were an odd shape, being the ground floor of a large tower on one corner of the keep, but Varel only got the briefest glimpse of them as Oswyn headed straight on through to the private garden he'd talked about. They sat there in the sun, eating the pastries and talking more about weapons and armour, fighting, tactics and strategy. It was, Varel found himself thinking, one of the most pleasantly relaxing afternoons he could ever remember enjoying.

Oswyn was clearly flagging by late afternoon; while they hadn't travelled anywhere near as far today as they had while walking on the mountain, it was obvious that the man was beginning to feel tired and in pain. Varel found a reason to excuse himself, claiming a desire to go rest for a little while before dinner. Oswyn gave him a sharp look, then smiled faintly. "I should do the same," he said, and rose to his feet with some effort. "Thank you – it's been a very enjoyable day," he said as they headed back indoors.

"For me, as well," Varel agreed.

* * *

By the time he woke up on his fourth day in the castle, Varel was beginning to feel restless. He didn't have anything to _do_ here, and he was used to be being busy. Oh, it was enjoyable, spending time wandering about or sitting talking with Oswyn, sometimes with Sighard there as well when the Bann was not busy with other things. He was well-clothed, well-fed, well-treated, and feeling about as useful here as feathers on a fish.

He got up and got dressed, then headed off to the dining hall for breakfast. Oswyn wasn't there yet, but a servant still showed up with a plate full of food for Varel almost as soon as he took his place at the table. He ate slowly, but by the end of his meal Oswyn still hadn't put in an appearance, which surprised him; the man had seemed given to regular hours.

With nothing better to do, he returned to his room, and spent some time in maintaining his weapons, and then in folding up and packing away his own clothing, returned to him the previous day. It had all been well-cleaned and mended, and smelled of nothing but laundry soap and clean breezes and ironing.

Bann Sighard was at the table when he went to lunch. It was the first time the two of them had been together without Oswyn's presence. The bann greeted him as warmly as he usually did.

"I fear I must apologize to you on my son's behalf," Sighard said quietly, after Varel had been served his meal. "He has taken to his bed today."

"He's ill?" Varel asked, a touch worriedly. "Or is it pain from his injuries?"

Sighard was quiet for a long moment before answering. "Pain, yes, but not just the purely physical. That he bears well enough. He is given to bouts of the black melancholy, since his escape. Which I can understand; he lost so much in the Blight Year. Friends, his milk-brother Miles, his own health and many of the skills he took pride in. His peace of mind, too."

Varel nodded slowly. The black melancholy was something all alienage elves had some familiarity with; few were the families that didn't have at least one or two members that suffered from it. While some recovered from it in time, there was no elf who didn't know at least one person who had died from it; someone who had turned their face to the wall and stopped eating, stopped caring, and wasted away or become ill as a result, and died. Or become fool-hardy with their safety, until their luck ran out. Or ended their life in some more direct and rapid fashion.

"I am very sorry to hear that, ser," he said quietly.

Bann Sighard nodded his head and gave Varel a thin smile. "Thank you," he said, then fell silent for a while, taking several spoonfuls of his soup before speaking again. "I had planned to give you your reward for your help today, but I know Oswyn would want to be on hand for it; do you mind staying a day or two longer, until he is up and about again?"

"Of course not," Varel said. "Thank you again for your hospitality."

"My pleasure," Sighard said, then turned the conversation onto a more casual and friendly discussion about archery and bows, and what feathers made the best fletching for use in which conditions.

After the meal Varel went for a walk for a while, sticking mostly to the more public areas of the castle that he'd already visited previously with Oswyn. He walked through the stable, looking at the horses, and spent some time in the smithy, sitting on the end of a barrel and watching one of the junior smiths making nails. He strolled around the castle grounds, passing along the way all sorts of different things – a practise yard, an archery range which he made note to visit later, kitchen gardens, another smaller courtyard with a fountain and seating, a flower garden, a small wilderness – no more wild than the flower gardens were – a small menage for working with horses, and around to the stables and workshops again.

After that he returned back indoors, and went to the small library Oswyn had shown him the second day there. He browsed the shelves for a while, eventually selecting a slim volume about military tactics that he'd heard of but never had a chance to read himself, and settled down in a chair near the windows to read. That sufficed to keep him busy the remainder of the afternoon.

Oswyn was not at the table for dinner either, though Sighard did mention that he'd roused himself enough to send for a tray from the kitchens a some while before. The pair of them talked little over the course of the meal, Sighard clearly being lost in his own thoughts, faint worry-lines creasing his forehead, and Varel willing to leave him to them.

Varel returned to the library after the meal, and continued reading while the light lasted, then went back to his own rooms. He had a long hot soak-bath before bed, thinking how pleasant it was to be able to do so, how easy it was when nothing more was needed than to turn a tap and have hot water flow into a ready tub. Not like the alienage, where most water had to be hauled a pailful at a time from one of the communal wells, or the river itself, though river-water was unsafe for anything but watering garden-plots. The well-water itself needed boiling before it could be used for drinking, or a bloody flux could result, and even bathing in it unboiled was risky; baths in his prior experience were therefore far more likely to involve a small basin and a wet cloth than an actual tub.

Afterwards, clean and warm and well-wrapped in a clean night-shirt, he retired to bed. It took him a while to get to sleep; he found himself thinking of Oswyn, and worrying a little about him.

* * *

_Note – black melancholy is an old term that refers to depression, among other disorders. It was believed to be caused by an excess of 'black bile' in the body, in fact the word melancholia itself is Greek for black bile, which gives an idea of how long the idea has been around. I would imagine depression is a fairly common problem in the alienage, and most city elves would have had painful personal experience of someone they knew falling prey to it._


	9. Chapter 9

Two more days had passed and there was still no sign of Oswyn. He had sent for a tray for dinner again, Sighard told Varel, but on his way back to his room later that evening Varel saw the tray sitting on the floor in the hallway, waiting for a servant to take it away, and the food on it barely touched. That worried him, especially as it was the only food Oswyn had eaten all day. It was never a good sign when someone was so far gone in melancholy that they couldn't even bring themselves to eat properly.

The next morning there was still no sign of him at breakfast. Bann Sighard looked as if he was worried and trying to hide it, and soon excused himself from the table. Varel lingered over his own meal for a while after the bann had left, frowning in thought, then abruptly rose and went over to the sideboard. He put together a light meal, of nothing too strong-smelling; a couple of biscuits, some soft cheese, a small bowl of stewed seasonal fruits and berries, and a second larger one of oatmeal porridge, well-sweetened with maple sugar. He covered it all with a napkin to keep it warm, and headed back towards his rooms, and beyond to Oswyn's door.

He knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again, then tried the handle. The door was unlocked. He went in, feeling slightly guilty about trespassing but mostly worried about Oswyn. The small first room was empty; he continued on and through into the bedroom. It was dark there, all the drapes drawn over the few windows. Just enough stray light filtered in for him to make out the bed, and the blanket-wrapped lump in it, a shock of untidy blond hair sticking out one end. The room smelled faintly, of unwashed body and stale air.

He snorted softly, and set the tray down on a small table near the bed, when moved to the nearest window. "Good morning!" he called out loudly, as he drew the drapes open, letting in a flood of early-morning light.

There was a startled exclamation from the bed, and the sounds of someone stirring. He cracked open the air-vent of the window, then moved on to the next, opening it as well, both drapes and vent.

"Varel?" Oswyn said hoarsely. "What are you doing?"

He turned then, and looked at the man. Oswyn was leaning upwards on one elbow, holding the sheets tightly around himself, as modest as any maiden – doubtless not wanting anyone to see his scars, Varel guessed. Deep lines of pain bracketed his mouth; his hair hung greasy and unwashed around his face and he had a heavy scruff covering his cheeks and chin from going unshaven for several days. He looked unwell.

Varel smiled at him. "You look like a mabari's chew-toy," he said matter-of-factly, then walked over and whisked the napkin off the tray. "I brought you some food. Why don't you eat some of that, and then we can see about getting you a bath. You need one."

"You're not my servant," Oswyn said, sounding equal parts worried and annoyed.

"No, I'm not, which means you can't order me to go away. Convenient, that," Varel remarked, and walked around the foot of the bed to open another window in the far wall.

Oswyn groaned, then let himself fall back against his pillows. "I'm not hungry," he said.

"You're wrong about that," Varel told him. " _You_ might not feel like eating, but your body knows better. It's hungry, even if you aren't."

Oswyn snorted. "What difference is there between my body and myself? I'm not hungry, I tell you. Just the _smell_ of food makes me feel ill."

Varel said nothing, just walked over to the tray, split one of the biscuits, and spread the halves thickly with the soft cheese. He walked over to the bed, and sat down on the edge of it, facing Oswyn, with one leg folded under him. He balanced one of the biscuits halves on his knee, and took a bite out of the other half, chewing it neatly while watching Oswyn silently.

Oswyn stared at him for a moment, then looked at the other biscuit half. He looked away. "Why are you here?" he asked.

"I was worried," Varel said, and took another bite of his biscuit.

"About me?" Oswyn asked, sounding startled. He turned his head back again, peering at Varel as if to see whether or not he was telling the truth.

"Yes, about you," Varel said.

" _Why?_ " Oswyn asked. "You barely know me."

Varel shrugged. "I know you well enough to know that I like you. You're decent, for a human – you've treated me as well as you'd treat another human. That's rare, and worth encouraging, as far as I'm concerned. I've enjoyed talking with you. I've enjoyed being your guest. I wouldn't mind being your friend, if you'll let me."

Oswyn just stared at him for a long moment, then flushed and blinked rapidly. "Thank you," he said huskily.

Varel smiled, and took another bite of the biscuit in his hand, then lifted the other from his knee and held it out to Oswyn. "Eat," he said softly. "You need it."

Oswyn took it from his hand, and nibbled at it, not with any real appetite, but at least making the effort. Varel finished his own half-biscuit, then rose and fetched the tray, setting it on the bed where Oswyn could reach it easily. "As much of that as you can manage," he ordered. "I'm going to go draw you a bath."

"You don't need to do that," Oswyn said, jaw setting stubbornly.

"No, but I want to," Varel said. "And you need a bath; not to put to fine a point on it, but you stink. And you'll feel better for it. Once you're fed and clean and dressed maybe we can go sit in that little garden of yours for a while and talk."

Oswyn stared silently at him for a long moment, looking flummoxed, then suddenly the faintest of smiles curved his lips. "All right," he agreed, then picked up the bowl of stewed fruit, and spooned some up.

* * *

Oswyn sat on a bench in the sunlight, listening to Varel talking about a book on tactics he'd been reading. He felt... not good, but somewhat better. Clean, shaven, dressed in comfortable clothing, sitting warm in sun listening to the elf talk, making the occasional comment or sound of agreement himself. His joints still ached, though the hot water of the bath had soothed them somewhat.

He found himself feeling unexpectedly touched by the elf's willingness to be his friend, by his stubborn insistence on seeing that Oswyn got up and ate and looked after himself. He did not believe it due to any mercenary motive on the elf's part, though doubtless that would be the first possibility that sprang to most people's minds. No... the elf was honest, he felt positive, and when he had said that he wished to offer Oswyn his friendship because he liked Oswyn, surely that was exactly what he meant. _Not_ that he pretended to friendship in hopes of advancement, not that he felt it was politic to be friendly with the young lordling, most certainly not that he had any designs on slipping into Oswyn's bed – the three most common reasons behind why people had ever falsely expressed a desire for friendship with Oswyn.

It made him miss his friends – his true friends, the friends of his childhood and youth – all the more. So many of them were now dead. Miles, his milk-brother and closest friend; Cailan, the friend he'd revered growing up and been proud to call his King; Thomas, Howe's youngest son, who had always been first with a joke and a drink. He wondered now if Thomas had ever known down what dark paths his father had turned. He hoped not; he hoped his friend had died innocent of his father's misdeeds. Others, too, dead at Ostagar, or dead elsewhere.

And then there were all those that were simply too busy with other things since the Blight Year, in the wake of so much death and destruction throughout Ferelden. Fergus Cousland, who'd lost his entire family apart from his younger sister Katherine, and was now Teryn of a badly decimated Highever. Katy herself, now the Hero of Ferelden, and Warden-Commander of the Grey, at the newly founded Grey Warden Commanderie at Vigil's Keep. She was arlessa of Amaranthine, too, which at least theoretically made her into her brother's vassal, and dealing with even worse destruction within her arling than had occurred at Highever. And then there was Anora, Cailan's widow, busy putting Ferelden back on a sound footing since being confirmed as Queen in her own right, while keeping the Orlesians at bay.

He realized that Varel had fallen silent, and looked up to find the elf watching him, head cocked slightly to one side. "You've wandered far in your thoughts," Varel said. "I don't think you've heard a word I've said in the last five minutes," he pointed out.

Oswyn smiled slightly. "I suppose I did. I was thinking about absent friends," he confessed. "The ones that I don't see or hear from any more because they're busy, and the ones that are dead."

Varel nodded, face sober. "A lot of those for everyone, since the Blight Year."

"Yes," Oswyn agreed, then frowned as he looked around the walled garden. "Do you mind if we walk for a while?"

Varel smiled warmly at him as the elf rose to his feet. "Of course," he said. "Lead the way."

Oswyn managed to get to his own feet without help, though he felt some humiliation over how difficult it was to rise unaided. The soreness from all the exercise of walking down the mountain was less crippling than lying abed for three days had been, his injuries stiffening up from lack of movement. He moved slowly, pacing along the path that wound around within the confines of the small garden. It wrapped around the base of the tower where his rooms were and then back around again near the outer wall that enclosed the garden, circling a small pond at one end and an apple tree at the other. His joints protested, but he knew they needed the exercise, and after the first two laps they did loosen somewhat.

"It's almost time for lunch," Varel pointed out after a while.

Oswyn nodded. He still wasn't feeling particularly hungry, but Varel had been right earlier – he _did_ need to eat, even if he didn't feel hungry.

The pair of them returned into the castle through his apartment, and went from there to the dining hall. He felt a strong surge of guilt when he saw the expression that crossed his father's face on spotting him entering the hall, and for a moment could only think about how much his recent behaviour must have worried his father. The distress he felt at the thought was almost enough to make him turn around and hurry right back to his room. But the elf was at his back, and knowing Varel was there and watching him made him grit his teeth and keep walking, all the way across what seemed a very much larger than usual hall, to take his seat by his father's side.

His father smiled warmly at him, and nodded, and said "I'm glad you're feeling well enough to join us."

He could _hear_ the real gladness in his father's voice. He could only nod back in response, not trusting himself to speak, and suddenly feeling very glad that he was there. His father seemed to sense his sudden turmoil; he didn't say anything, just set his hand on Oswyn's shoulder and squeezed it, and signalled for a servant to bring food for the pair.


	10. Chapter 10

When he finally packed to leave Dragon's Peak four days later, Varel had a lot more – and finer – belongings than he'd first come there with. A suit of leather armour of much better quality than he'd ever owned before, a new sword as well, and a small purse heavy with coin, all gifts from Bann Sighard. From Oswyn, he had several of the outfits that had been loaned to him during his stay, and a pair of finely-crafted daggers. There was no way it would all fit into his backpack; he ended up having to make a blanket-wrapped bundle of his new armour and daggers – too fine for him to want to wear for everyday – and tie both them and the sword to the outside of his pack. An awkward-looking and unbalanced arrangement, but it wasn't that far to Denerim.

He had a final breakfast with Oswyn and his father, and a last conversation with Oswyn as the man walked with him out to the courtyard.

"Glad to finally be heading home?" Oswyn asked.

"I suppose. I'll have a lot to do once I get back. Looking for work, and a place to live, too."

"No one you can stay with?"

"A friend or two, sure... but my parents are both gone now. I'll have to see the _hahren_ – that's sort of like our mayor, or perhaps more like a village elder – and get a place to stay more long-term. Bachelors quarters most likely, a room of my own if I'm lucky. Though I suppose between so many being sold off to slavery in Tevinter, and more killed during the Blight, that the alienage isn't as packed tight as it used to be," he said a touch glumly, then grimaced. "Which means the hahren will also be pushing for me to hurry up and get married."

Oswyn gave him a questioning look. "You're engaged? You never mentioned a girlfriend or anything like that..."

Varel grinned. "No, that's not how it usually works among elves. We're like you human nobles; it's an arranged marriage as often as not, only rarely for love. The hahren like to mix the bloodlines between the different alienages; the hahren arranges exchanges, men and women from our alienage travelling elsewhere, elves from elsewhere travelling here. Though I suppose with the alienage so empty it's mostly been elves coming here, the last while," he said, then frowned. "I hear the Amaranthine alienage is gone entirely – the elves were pretty much all gone by the end of the Blight Year. The city tore down what was left of it afterwards, and there's human housing there now. I heard that Highever was only slightly better off. Anyway, all of that means that the first thing the hahren will likely want to talk to me about is my marriage prospects."

Oswyn made a face. "Sounds charming. Well, I'll wish you a pleasant journey, and hope that things go well for you once you get back home."

Varel nodded. They'd reached the courtyard by then, where the reason he had chosen to depart today was waiting – a pair of waggons, headed off to Denerim market. He could get a lift to the city with them, which wouldn't save him all that much in the way of time, but would be much easier than trying to walk there carrying his overburdened pack. Oswyn introduced him to the carters, and after placing his pack in the back of one of the waggons, the two of them clasped forearms. Saying good-bye felt awkward – they'd known each other such a short time, and yet he felt he was losing a close friend now that it came time to say farewell. Oswyn seemed subdued as well, which made Varel worry a little; he'd seemed so much more cheerful the last couple of days.

"Can't say that I enjoyed that walk down the mountain, but I am glad that I met you because of it," Oswyn said, smiling warmly at the elf. "I've enjoyed your stay here. I hope you'll keep in touch?"

Varel smiled just as warmly back at him. "I will that," he agreed. "And you keep in touch too. Maybe next time you're in Denerim you can look me up."

Oswyn nodded and smiled. "Next time I'm in Denerim," he said. "Sure."

Varel climbed up into the waggon and took a seat on a cloth-wrapped bale of fleeces. The waggons lurched in motion, across the courtyard and out the gate. His last sight of Oswyn was of the man still standing in the courtyard, leaning on his cane with one hand, the other raised in a brief wave of farewell, which touched him more than it might have, knowing as he did how painful a motion it was for Oswyn to make.

It was only some hours later that he found himself thinking how uncertain that final smile had been, and realized that in all their talk of events since the Blight Year, Oswyn had never once spoken of being anywhere but within his father's bannorn.

* * *

Denerim seemed just as large, hectic, and almost as smelly as he remembered it, though there were also obvious changes. The city walls were different, enclosing a large space along the river to the west of where the old walls had been, a whole new district of the city with wide cobbled streets and houses built mainly of stone and good fired clay brick, with roofs of slate, not the half-timbered wattle-and-daub with thatched roofs that was more commonly used. Or _had been_ more commonly used, the carters informed him.

Queen Anora apparently had rather decided ideas about suitable building materials after witnessing the firestorms that had ravaged her capital during the Blight Year; all reconstruction was to be in as inflammable materials as possible, with wide boulevards and an occasional high wall cutting the city into smaller districts that would hopefully help contain any such fires as did break out. As much of the city as had been destroyed during the Blight, substantial areas of it needed to be cleared and rebuilt anyway; she'd taken the opportunity to institute several reforms, including, he was told, a system of sewers underlying most of the city to channel waste to the river. No more emptying of slop buckets into the street; it all had to either be piped into the sewers, or collected in night-jars and carted away.

Then they got beyond the new quarter, and he began to get some idea of just how bad some parts of the city still were; the contrast between the new or rebuilt areas and the still-to-be-done areas was appalling. Entire neighbourhoods of the city were still little more than mounds of weed-overgrown burned rubble, with people living in poorly-constructed shanties among the mounds or within the more habitable portions of the wrecked buildings. It was as bad, if not worse, than the alienage itself had ever been, made all the more obvious here by how there'd be an area of newly-built or repaired buildings set right next to a wasteland. And naturally it was all the less affluent areas that were the least far along in being cleared and rebuilt. It made Varel worry for the state of the alienage.

The waggons finally reached the market; twice as large as it had been before the Blight Year, expanding into space made vacant due to the destruction of the buildings that had once stood there. The old smithy and laundry were both gone; the towering old half-timbered houses that had once obscured the view of the chantry gone as well. The chantry itself was gone, too, victim not of the invasion, but of the rebuilding afterwards, he was told; a new and larger chantry had been built in the new part of the city, along with a new chantry school, orphanage, all set in park-like grounds, far finer than the cramped quarters the old chantry and its outbuildings had occupied. Where they had been was now warehouses and workshops and stores, bordering on the enlarged marketplace, the warehouses placed to have easy access to the river, which had been cleared and dredged to support barge traffic. The carts stopped there, not far from the alienage bridge, and the carters bid Varel a reasonably friendly farewell, knowing that he was in good odour with their bann, and had had something to do with helping the bann's son, who was well-liked by his father's people.

He hefted his pack up and onto his back with some difficulty, where it made an unwieldy load along with his bow and quiver of arrows, then set out to the bridge, looking around interestedly as he walked. The market was bustling with customers, about half of whom had a reasonably prosperous look; a good sign for how well the recovery was going, though he still saw enough raggedly-dressed men and women, and starveling street-brats, to make it clear that the city was still as full of mixed fortunes as ever. There was also a larger guard presence than he remembered there being, though at the same time less fear or wariness of the guards; he saw one small group of them being hailed with obvious good feeling by the shopkeepers they passed, and being given polite nods by most of the populace as well. Some things had definitely changed for the better, he guessed.

Crossing the bridge to the alienage felt like walking back in time. He could see where the centre span of the bridge had been repaired, a swathe of new stonework rejoining the age-worn ends, but apart from that, the place looked much the same as he remembered. The same towering tenements, the same poorly-built and poorly-maintained sweatshops and run-down warehouses. The same narrow twisty streets of packed earth, that changed to foul mud in any rains, with only a few small stretches on the main street and near the vhenadahl paved with wide-spread cobblestones or cracked stone flags, all as warped underfoot as a buckled wood floor. The only change was in the population; still elven, but so many fewer of them, and so few of the faces familiar.

He went to Valendrian's house first of all, but the door was answered by a stranger, an older woman, with an infant in her arms, and three more children of assorted heights visible in the rooms beyond.

"The hahren? You must mean the old one – he passed away before we moved here," she said tiredly. "It's Alarith that's hahren now."

"Alarith? The storekeeper? But he's no elder," Varel said, surprised.

She smiled faintly, and shrugged. "It's him as has the job, elder or no. He should be in his store this time of day."

Varel nodded and thanked her, then crossed the square, such as it was, and ducked down the short narrow side-street that led to Alarith's store. You had to know it was there to find it; it had no sign that might lead a shemlen to it.

There was a stranger behind the counter; a young woman, perched on a high backless stool, belly bulging in advanced pregnancy. Varel spotted Alarith seated in a comfortable chair in one corner of the store, a group of cronies sitting on a bench nearby, most of them busy with their hands, doing piece-work for whatever small coin it brought in – whittling joinery pegs, or carving spoons and forks out of bits of horn and wood, that sort of thing.

Alarith looked up and spotted Varel, and grinned widely in recognition, putting aside the bit of cording he'd been working with, and rose to his feet. "Varel!" he exclaimed. "Haven't seen you since before the invasion! What have you been up to? No, wait, now I remember – you went for a mercenary, didn't you?" he asked, eyes taking in the matched daggers at Varel's waist, as well as his armour and the obvious sword strapped to his pack.

Varel grinned. "What gave it away? The armour?" he asked, earning a small laugh from Alarith and his friends. "I hear you're the hahren now?"

"That I am," Alarith said, a more serious expression crossing his face. "Weren't many elders left after the battle of Denerim, even if we did keep the worst of the fighting out of the alienage. Elder Valendrian decided that his successor needed to be a younger man, someone who'd be around for a good few years afterwards – stability, he said, was what we needed now. And since a lot of the work is things I already knew how to do, like record keeping, I somehow ended up getting pegged for it. Not that I'm complaining, it's not all that different than what I did as a shopkeep after all, except I'm bartering with people about marriages and moves instead of over a measure of grain and a handful of turnip greens. And housing, which I'm guessing is what you're most interested in at the moment?"

"Yes," Varel agreed with a smile. "I need a place to stay. A room of my own somewhere by preference – I have the money for rent – or I guess bachelor quarters otherwise."

"Room is no problem, as long as you can pay. We've still got a lot of places sitting empty, or near-as. Though I'll warn you a lot of them are empty 'cause people don't want to live there; chancy places where nasty things happened, during the Blight Year."

Varel nodded slowly. He could imagine the sort of places Alarith meant; the old orphanage, where so many had died even before the alienage was locked up. The building where Tevinter slavers had quarantined elves before shipping them off into slavery; places like that. "I'm not overly superstitious myself," he said. "I haven't met anything yet that wouldn't yield to cold steel or a well-placed arrow."

Alarith grinned. "Well said. Well, if you're not picky, I've a few places I can show you. Bekka, I'm going out for a bit," he called to the girl behind the counter, who merely nodded in acknowledgement. "My wife," he told Varel as he led the way out of the shop. "That's our first child she's about due for," he added, a note of pride in his voice. "She's from Ansburg, up in the Free Marches. They're overcrowded there, we got a good few new people from them. Lots of elves from all over moved to Ferelden, afterwards, but between Highever and here we're still far from as full as we used to be."

"And Amaranthine? I heard there's no alienage there any more?"

"No, nor ever like to be – the stories of what happened to the few elves leftover that the slavers didn't want, it's enough to turn your stomach... that damned Howe was a nasty one! Anyway, there's just a double handful of elves left in the whole arling, I hear, mostly ones who were living elsewhere, as servants to the banns, or were farmers or hunters and suchlike, not in the city itself. The new arlessa is supposed to be an all-right sort, the Couslands always treated their people reasonably well, so with the Amaranthine alienage gone, the few elves who have gone here have all settled at Vigil's Keep instead. Not in a proper alienage, but mixed in with all the humans. Dwarfs, too – there's a fair-sized number of what they call surfacers living there now also. Anyway, this is the first place," Alarith said, and led Varel into a building that was indeed the old orphanage, long-since cleaned up and even largely repaired and redecorated.

Not, after a lengthy tour of the numerous rooms there, a place he felt that he particularly wanted to live. He had bad memories of helping to clear the bodies out of there, after the riot, and the place had an unsettling feeling to it, and precious few windows; he preferred a place with at least some sunlight.

It was late afternoon before Alarith finally showed him a place he liked the look of; a pair of rooms, one of them surprisingly sizable, on the top floor of one of the old warehouses along the river. The pair occupied one end of the slant-roofed attic space, the larger room having two dormered windows with a view across the river toward the marketplace, while a small window in the end-wall gave a view across the alienage in the direction of the bridge, the top of the vhenadahl tree just visible beyond the rows of buildings. The smaller room was tucked in along the same end wall, a narrow slice of a room with a sharply pitched ceiling, just wide enough for a single bed, or a double if you didn't mind entering the bed from the foot of it. It even had another small window with much the same view of the alienage as the one in the larger room. There remained just enough space for a small wardrobe in the area between the door and the windowed wall.

The rooms were a full four flights of stairs up from ground level, in a warehouse that the slavers had made use of for smuggling the elves out of Ferelden, which explained why it was still empty; there were larger spaces lower down that were still sitting vacant, for that matter. But Varel liked the view, and didn't mind the stairs, which among other things would insulate him nicely from the noisy ground floor, which had all been turned into workshops since the Blight Year, and was noisy from dawn until well after dusk. And it being empty for so long made the rent a bit cheaper than it otherwise might have been. While he was reasonably well-off right now between what was left of his mercenary pay and Bann Sighard's gift, he knew he needed to watch his expenses; the coin wouldn't last forever.

Alarith took him to the building owner, and stood by while he negotiated the rent, then witnessed the deed for it, and for an additional fee helped him locate a reasonably clean mattress and a table and chair and other necessary furnishings, as well as a group of men – Alarith's cronies from the store, plus a few others – to carry the lot upstairs. By the time evening set in, Varel was able to close and lock his own door, and sit down on a chair – wobbly, but it'd do until he had time to either repair it or buy better – by the light of a cheap tallow candle, and eat a bowl of lukewarm stew with dumplings sent over by Alarith's wife.

He bundled up in his bedroll on the rag-stuffed ticking mattress, mentally making a list of things he needed to buy over the next few days to settle in properly, and was soon fast asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

He hadn't expected to miss the elf so much, especially on so few days acquaintance. Yet he'd become used to Varel's presence, used to spending time each day in his company. It had been nice to have a friend again; a friend that was _there_ , not someone who was busy with their own affairs elsewhere. He knew his reaction was in some ways a selfish one; his friends all had their own lives, their own duties and responsibilities. Even Varel had his own life; he'd only remained there as long as he had because he was between jobs, and temporarily free of any immediate responsibility. And, Oswyn admitted to himself, because there'd been gain to be had in staying; Varel had hardly left empty-handed after his visit.

Not that Oswyn begrudged the elf his reward; he'd been thankful for the help Varel had given him on the mountain. Thankful, too, for the companionship the elf had given him during his stay, pulling Oswyn out of his despondent mood, keeping him company, occupying his time with interesting conversation. Varel's visit had had a good effect on him; one that lasted well beyond the young elf's visit, before his black melancholy returned.

He woke one morning a couple of weeks after Varel's departure, and felt the familiar overwhelming despair. About his life, his health, his prospects for happiness – which were respectively going nowhere, wrecked permanently, and unlikely. He started to move, then gasped and bit his lip in pain; it was going to be one of the doubly bad days, his damaged joints adding physical misery to the mental misery he was already in. Not for the first time he wished he'd died in Howe's dungeon, or not survived the fevers and infection that had gripped him after his escape. He bit his lip even harder, hard enough to draw blood, as his eyes filled with tears. If he wasn't his father's only son... if it wouldn't hurt his father so much more than he was already hurt, he would end it. End it all – the pain, the hopelessness, the black despair that gripped him.

He managed to ignore the pain in his joints enough to roll over and scrabble at the bedside table, until his hand closed around the corked jar he kept there. He fumbled it open, and took a careful sip directly from it, rather than trying to spoon out a measured amount of the medicine contained within; a strong painkiller. It numbed the pain somewhat, and made him sleepy as well; a second good-sized sip would be enough to let him sleep the day away. If he drank it all... well, he tried not to think of that too often.

He took that second sip today though, before corking the jug and putting it down. He lay back, head already beginning to spin slightly from the potent brew. He never liked the way it made him feel, his thoughts either sluggish or flitting feverishly from idea to idea. Today it was sluggish, as he drifted on the edge of sleep for some time, sometimes drifting deep enough to begin to dream, only to be recalled to reality by his aching body.

There was a knock at the door. "Ser?" a familiar voice called. One of the servants. "Your father noticed you weren't at breakfast." A long silence. He began to hope whomever it was had alredy given up and left. "Ser?"

"Go away," he called back, then rolled himself up in his bedding, blankets wadded around his ears. Why couldn't they just leave him alone... though part of him half-wished someone would do like Varel had done, and come in and talk to him. But whomever had knocked went away, and no one else came. And then the drugs finally overcame the pain enough for him to go back to sleep.

It was early evening before he woke again, feeling sore and grumpy, and with a pounding headache. He managed to get out of bed then, long enough to yank of the bell-pull to summon a servant, then stagger into the bathing chamber to make use of the earth closet and start a bath running. A cool one; he felt overheated after lying wrapped up in his blankets all day. When someone knocked at the door, he went out and called through it, telling them to bring him a tray of food, then returned to the bathing chamber and bathed, dressing in a fresh night-shirt before returning to the main room. He opened the door long enough to retrieve the covered tray that had been left on a small table nearby. His stomach was growling with hunger, and he ate the first few bites with his fingers as soon as he'd closed the door. He set down the tray and sat, then wolfed down the contents. His hunger reassured him; at least he _was_ still hungry, it wasn't like the really bad times when even the thought of eating was off-putting, and what little food he did manage to eat he had to force himself to consume, knowing he needed the nourishment even if the smell and taste of the food made him feel ill. Like that first day when Varel had walked in without invitation, he thought, and found himself smiling briefly at the memory.

Bathed and in clean clothes and fed he at least felt slightly more human, and the headache had eased off. More awake, too, though his head still felt like it was stuffed with wadding rather than brains. He put the tray back outside the door, and went and washed his hands. When he came back out to the main room again he stopped and just stood there for a while, wishing he had something to do to take his mind off things. He looked just once at his sword, hanging on its pegs on the wall of his room, then turned his back on it; even on his best days its weight was too much for him to handle any more. As much as he might wish that he could do something such as take it down and tend to it, actually attempting to do so would be foolish.

His eye fell upon a book on a low table between the chairs near the fireplace; the book on tactics Varel had been reading, the contents of which they'd spent much time discussing. He'd read it last some years before; he could re-read it now, he decided. It would give him something to occupy his mind.

He sat up until late that night, reading the slim volume, often pausing as memories of the questions and comments Varel had had about the book and its contents returned and briefly distracted him. When he finished it he just sat for a while, lost in thought, then painfully levered himself to his feet. He pulled on a robe over his nightclothes, and some slippers, then tucked the book in one pocket and picked up a candle. He let himself out of his rooms, walking through the near-silent hallways to the library, where he re-shelved the book, then spent some few minutes just wandering around the room, reading titles and sometimes reaching out to touch a hand to an old favourite among them.

Eventually he picked out two books – a more advanced book on tactics, and one of Brother Genitivi's travelogues for lighter reading. He started towards the door, then stopped, his eyes caught by a volume on one shelf that his father had more than once mentioned by title as a particularly fine book on logistics and supply. He frowned slightly, then abruptly reached out and picked it up, too. He'd never been particularly interested in the topic before, being more concerned about acquiring more physical skills – weapons work, horse riding, and so forth – though thanks to his father's insistence on him knowing how to lead, not just how to fight, he also had at least an adequate knowledge of tactics and strategy. But logistics was important too, he knew, and now that he couldn't wield a weapon any more, and could only ride at a sedate place, perhaps he should study the subject. Doing so would at least keep him usefully occupied.

The addition of the third book to what he was carrying, as small as the pile was, still made the books more than he could comfortably carry with just the support of one arm; he had to put the pile down, balance his candle-holder on top of it, then carefully pick up the stack in both hands. He made his way back to his room, stopping once to put down the books and let his arms rest, grimacing at the reminder this was of just how incapable he was of doing much more than just carrying himself, and even that often a painful endeavour. He was relieved when he made it back to his rooms – relieved, and tired again. He set the books down by the chairs, extinguished his candle, and took himself off to bed.

The next few days were even worse than that first one, with him barely able to stir himself out of bed. When he slept he kept finding himself trapped in nightmares of being back in Howe's dungeon. When he'd wake he'd often just lie there, his thoughts going around and around in circles, like a trapped animal in a cage, sometimes finding himself lying there with tears trickling slowly out of his eyes, overcome with hopelessness, and once tears of rage as his continued hatred of the long-dead Rendon Howe and the ruins the man had made of his life temporarily overcame him.

Whenever he could, he forced himself back to sleep to escape the melancholy, finding the frequent nightmares less painful than the despair. He was dosing himself with his medicine when it seemed the only way to escape, though using it when his mood was so bleak always frightened him; at such times he wasn't sure he could trust himself with it. He slept through the days, waking only to eat and care for himself a little each evening, too undone to even sit and read any of the books he'd picked up that first night, instead just lying motionless in bed, or sitting slumped in the chair near the fire, trying not to think. Trying to convince himself that his darkest thoughts were untrue and unwise, that his father still loved him, that the people of their bannorn still cared for him and trusted him as their future leader, that he _did_ have a future, even if right now it looked very empty. The worst of it was how some part of him _knew_ it was true, that his darker thoughts were wrong, a mere sickness of his brain, and yet he couldn't make himself disbelieve and deny the fears. Couldn't make himself believe that things would ever get any better than they were right now, which was not good at all.

On the fourth day he hit the point where even the thought of food made him feel ill; he managed to choke down a few mouthfuls of bread, and a little beer, then dosed himself back to sleep again. He overdid the dosage; it was dawn of the fifth day before he woke fully again, with the worst headache yet, a mouth that tasted like a sewer, and a bladder that was painfully full even after so little intake of liquids over the last day or two. He was light-headed with hunger and thirst, and sore from lying motionless so long. His joints protested painfully when he moved, but he was too shaken to even consider taking another mouthful of his medicine. It would be bad enough to end himself knowingly, but to do it by _accident_... no. No more blighted medicine unless he was absolutely certain he was in shape to judge the amount correctly.

It took him two tries to even sit upright, and then he needed to sit on the edge of the bed and rest for a while before he could rise to his feet. He had to support himself against the wall as he made his way to the bathing chamber to relieve his bladder, then back out and to the bell-pull to summon a servant. He leaned against the wall near the door, vaguely frightened by his own weakness, until he heard a servant's quiet knock.

"Ser?"

"Bring a tray," he called out, voice raspy and hoarse with disuse. "Just bread and fruit and some small beer."

"Yes, ser," the voice called, and retreated.

He needed to sit. He considered just sliding right on down to the floor, but knew just how painfully hard it would be to get up again if he did. Instead he made his way over to a nearby chest and sat down on its lid, grimacing as the movement gusted air up from under his nightshirt, making him aware of the reek of his unwashed body. Maker, he was a mess...! He sat quietly, trying not to think much and mostly succeeding.

Footsteps returning roused him from his drift. He had a sudden panicked thought, realizing he wasn't going to be able to carry in the tray from the hallway himself, as shaky as he currently was. He rose to his feet and made his way to the door, opening it a crack and peering out. A servant was just setting the tray down on the hallway table; he pulled the door open a little wider. "Bring that in, please," he called. "Peter, isn't it? Cook's nephew?"

"Yes, ser," the servant agreed, hastily picking the tray up again and carrying it in. "Do you need anything else, ser?" he asked once he'd set it down, giving Oswyn a slightly worried look.

"Yes. Draw a bath for me, please. I'll want one after I've eaten."

"Yes, ser," Peter said, looking faintly relieved, and hurried off to do so.

He ate slowly and methodically, washing down bites of food with the small beer. He managed to eat over half of what was on the tray, then between one bite and the next it went from being something he could stomach to something that the mere scent of made his guts churn. He hastily rose to his feet, heading off to see about that bath.

"Take the tray with you when you go," he told Peter, who had just turned off the water, and had already placed towels and soap ready near the tub for him. "I've had enough. Thank you."

"Ser," Peter said, gave him a low bow, and hurried away again.

He stripped off his nightclothes and climbed into the tub, wincing as he lowered himself into the hot water, then sighed as the heat eased some of the soreness of his joints and back. He sat back and closed his eyes, just soaking for a while, thinking about how bad this latest episode of black melancholy had been. He finally stirred himself to pick up the soap and a washcloth once the water started to cool. He washed slowly but thoroughly everywhere he could reach, with soap and cloth and long-handled brush, and washed his hair twice before he was satisfied with its cleanliness.

A change into clean clothes – smalls, stockings, leggings, a loose shirt, and low boots, not just more nightclothes – and he felt enough better to go and ring for a servant again. It was a different one this time, an older woman whose name he couldn't recall, though he was sure he'd known it once. "I'm going to be sitting out in my garden for a while," he told her. "Please have my rooms cleaned while I'm out. And send word to the kitchens for lunch to be brought to me there later."

"Yes, ser," she said, dipping a curtsey toward him, and hurried off, presumably to round up some maids to deal with cleaning and tidying his rooms.

He looked at the stack of books – untouched since he'd brought them back that first night – and picked up the travelogue, then on impulse set it back down and picked up the rather thicker book on logistics and supply instead. He carried it out to the garden, taking a seat on a bench in a partially shaded area, and opened it to the title page. His eyebrows rose slightly when he saw a scrawled note there, and rose even further when he realized it was a brief note to his father, signed by the book's author – none other than Loghain Mac Tir himself.

"Huh," he said, softly, and flipped slowly through the book, noticing how well-thumbed it was, then turned back to the beginning, settled himself more comfortably, and began to read.

It wasn't until Peter came into the garden carrying a covered tray that he realized just how absorbed he had become in his reading. "Your luncheon, ser," Peter said.

Oswyn nodded, and gestured to the empty seat beside him. "There will be fine. You can return for the tray in an hour. Thank you, Peter.'

"Ser," Peter said, put down the tray, bowed, and left. Oswyn closed and put aside the book, then removed the cloth covering the tray. There was a large bowl of barley pottage, redolent of onions and herbs and topped with a generous handful of shredded goose meat. A plate held a couple of slices of bread spread with fresh-churned butter, and there was also a smaller bowl containing a helping of cold stewed rhubarb topped with thick cream. He couldn't resist scooping up some of the sweet-tart rhubarb and cream on one finger and licking it clean before picking up the bowl of pottage. He managed to eat almost all of the goose and barley, and all of the bread, then devoured the cobbler and cream, leaving him feeling almost uncomfortably full after eating so lightly the previous few days.

He considered reading some more – the book had proven unexpectedly interesting for such a prosaic subject, due in large part to the dry humour that showed through in Loghain's words – but then realized how tired he was feeling now that he'd eaten. A nap, he decided... a nap, and then maybe a walk outside his rooms. He'd join his father for supper in the great hall this evening, whether or not he took the walk.

He carried the book back indoors, setting it down by his chair to continue reading later, and then went and lay down on the bed, on top of the covers. His joints were still aching, but it was more of a dull throb than the stabbing pains it had been before, and he was able to drift off after a while, still vaguely aware of sounds around him – he heard Peter return for the tray, and the breeze rushing through the bushes and trees outside – but was not bothered by them.


	12. Chapter 12

A week passed. Another. Oswyn had another melancholic episode, though not as lengthy nor as bad as the previous one had been. Rather to his surprise, he found himself still missing Varel; he'd expected that to fade, in time, his association with the elf having been so brief, yet he often found himself thinking of the young mercenary, wondering if he'd settled into the alienage yet, or found himself a new job.

It had been early summer, at the end of Bloomingtide that Varel left; Justinian had passed, and they were in the hottest days of late summer in early Solace when Oswyn found himself feeling unexpectedly restless. He'd been living here at the castle since waking from his initial sickness; had remained here as he slowly healed and recovered, as least as much as the nature of his injuries allowed either. It was over two years – closer to three – since he'd been anywhere outside of the bannorn. Now he found his thoughts turning again and again to Denerim, and their townhouse there. It would be unpleasant in the city, in this heat, and yet... if he went, he could perhaps stop in at the alienage, and ask after Varel. He spent several days considering the idea, and then one moment at breakfast found himself telling his father that he was thinking of going into the city for a week or two.

Sighard looked surprised at first, and then cautiously pleased. "I wish I could go along with you, but there's so much to do here in the bann at present; but by all means, go and enjoy yourself. A journey will do you good. Make free of the city house if you wish, or would you rather stay at an inn? An inn would be an easier choice to arrange, but the house will give you more privacy, and room to entertain if you wished. Though you'll need to bring along servants if you decide to stay there, the care-taking staff wouldn't be enough. And you'll want guards for the journey there and back, and as escort within Denerim, whether you stay at an inn or the house."

Oswyn found himself smiling at his father's enthusiasm for the idea. "I'd prefer the house, I think," he said. "Easier for me to be sure I'll have a room I can manage getting to and from without assistance. I'd prefer not to take a large retinue; I plan just a quiet visit. Say, a cook, a maidservant, and a couple of pairs of guards?" he asked.

Sighard nodded. "Better take a manservant as well," he said. "Both to give you any help you need, and so that whomever does the marketing doesn't have to go out unaccompanied; Denerim has too many places that are dangerous even in daylight now, filled with the desperate poor. So many lost their livelihoods or housing or both in the Blight Year, and reconstruction is proceeding very slowly, I hear," Sighard said, shaking his head and frowning. "I can appreciate Queen Anora's wish to see the city rebuilt to a higher standard while she has the opportunity to do so, but it seems to me that she's ignoring the reality that a good half of the city was destroyed, and that many people still need somewhere to live, and work to pay for both their shelter and their food. But I digress. When were you thinking of leaving?" he asked.

"Tomorrow," Oswyn said, surprising even himself. But... with his mind made up to go, it probably was better to go before he backslid into another fit of depression, he supposed.

The rest of the day was spent in making arrangements. He selected Peter and his wife – she was one of the undercooks in the kitchens here – for most of his household staff, along with one of the older maids, a motherly woman who he knew had family in Denerim and would be pleased by the opportunity to visit them. Plus she was of a phlegmatic temperament, almost completely unflappable, and therefore unlikely to find the changed conditions in Denerim a difficulty. For guards – in the end he took eight, not four, since that was a full patrol group, selecting Captain Lorne and his men to accompany him, remembering how it had been they who had found him and Varel on the mountain. A week or two of light duty in the city would be a treat for them.

They set off early the next morning, the servants and supplies in a waggon, the guards and Oswyn all mounted. One guard was sent off ahead to arrange rooms for them at an inn along the road to Denerim. The party travelled at a sedate pace, resting frequently during the worst of the day's heat, and reached the inn in mid-afternoon. In years gone by, they'd have been there by noon, lunched, and continued on to the city, reaching the townhouse by late afternoon. But that was not a pace that Oswyn could tolerate on horseback any more – even the slow rate they'd been moving at today had him feeling sore enough to be glad of the stop.

While the servants busied themselves carrying the luggage they'd need for tonight into the inn – the rest would stay on the waggon, with pairs of the guards standing watch over it until they departed again – Oswyn made his way to a bench against the outside wall of the tavern that was part of the inn, and sat down, looking off toward Dragon's Peak. They were having to circle around it to reach Denerim, the castle being on the far side of the mountain from Denerim itself, which greatly increased the length of the journey compared to the straight-line distance between the two places.

From where he was seated, he could just make out the steep northwest slope leading to the sheer cliffs overlooking the city itself, where he'd had his fall. He shivered, remembering that brief terrifying moment when he'd slipped and had thought that he'd go right off the cliff. Then smiled slightly, thinking of awakening to see an elf crouched at his side. Yes, he was definitely going to have to visit the alienage and see if he could locate the elf. Tomorrow should see them to the city; he'd visit the alienage the day after, he decided. Or perhaps the day after that; he'd have to see how things went once he reached their townhouse.

Peter came over just then. "Do you need anything, ser?" he asked.

"Yes, fetch me a tankard of ale from the tavern please. Actually, here, arrange for a round for everyone in our party," he said, digging in his belt pouch and then passing over some coins to the man. "And see that orders are given for our dinner later; nothing fancy, just whatever they've already got cooking."

"Yes, ser," Peter said. He went and got the ale for Oswyn before going to round up the guards and servants to let them know of their master's largesse. They were all smiles and nods as they filed past him on their way to the tavern, all but the two currently guarding the waggon. The maid came out a few minutes later, bearing a pair of tankards for them, which they received with pleased smiles. She dipped a curtsey to Oswyn in passing. He nodded, then went back to contemplating the distant scenery, and enjoying the day.

It was, he decided, pleasant to be travelling out and about, even if it did make him sore. Besides, he'd likely have been sore even if he's done nothing more strenuous than staying in his rooms at the castle. He found himself looking forward to Denerim, not just for the chance it offered of seeing Varel again, but also the things he could do there – shopping, for the sort of things they didn't produce for themselves back home, and maybe spending an evening or two at the Gnawed Noble. Perhaps he'd go and see the new cathedral that he'd heard was being built. And he should pay a courtesy call at the palace, it having been years since he'd last paid his respects to Ferelden's rulers.

He felt a pang of grief, remembering that occasion; King Cailan had still been alive then, the Blight not even a rumour yet. They'd gone into the city for Winterfest, Cailan having decided to throw a large celebration that year, and gone visiting back and forth with the other nobles who were in the city for the same reason. Winter travel being what it was, it was mainly only the closest nobles who'd made the journey in, though Wulff and his sons had braved the arduous journey from West Hills, it being a point of honour with the martially inclined Wulff that he and his were fit to travel in any weather, and the Couslands had attended as well, having journeyed by sea rather than by land.

He put down his tankard, unable to stomach the last few mouthfuls of ale in it, remembering how cheerful they'd all been; Fergus so proud of young Oran, he face lighting whenever he looked at his son or wife. Anora pacing out dance after dance with her husband, the two all smiles and affectionate looks, Thomas' slightly drunken good humour as he methodically worked his way around the ballroom, seemingly determined on dancing with every single woman there, whether eight or eighty or any age in between; the delighted grin look on one young girl's face when Thomas very gallantly asked her to dance, the surprising sprightliness of some of the old grandmothers. Oswyn had danced with more than a few women himself, from his peers like Katy Cousland and Delilah Howe and Bryand's daughter Habren to courtesy dances with older women, such as Katy's mother, Eleanor. It had been such a joyous occasion... Yet now he found himself remembering then-minor details such as Arl Rendon and Arl Urien talking quietly in a corner together over drinks, and wondering what dark things might have been occurring masked behind the gaiety even then.

He forced himself to put aside such unpleasant thoughts, looking at the landscape and thinking only of what a beautiful day it was to be on the road.

* * *

Varel exchanged nods of greeting with the other elves seated around the base of the vhenadahl tree. It being a fine day, many people had gathered there to sit in the sun and work on bits and pieces of things. Many of the elves living around the square itself had put out benches and chairs for people to use, and Varel soon found himself a seat on a bench between a young woman crocheting lace trim out of fine white thread, and an older man whittling pegs. He set his own workbasket down at his feet, then took out a plain dagger hilt and a handful of leather straps, and set to work braiding the leather around the grip. Getting the braiding started was the hard part; once the braid was underway it was just a case of passing the strips over and under each other in a set pattern, taking only a minimal amount of his attention, and enabling him to chat with the other elves nearby.

Mostly it was just local gossip – about other elves, or about well-known humans; some of them nobles, many of them employers or landlords, a few of them thugs, with some cross-over between the three groups. There was also news about doings elsewhere in the city, as well – the continued unrest in the poorer areas of town, word of places that were willing to hire elves to do some of the clearing and reconstruction – and the odd tidbit from further afield. Burning off the blighted lands in the far south was nearly complete; Lothering was being rebuilt, as well as a second smaller settlement down at the ruins of Ostagar, to keep a better eye on the wilds. Arl Ramon of Redcliffe was reportedly ill again, and many believed that Bann Teagan would soon inherit the title. The Divine had reportedly sent Queen Anora a stiffly-worded missive objecting to her lax treatment of mages and pointing out that their care was the purview of the Chantry, not of any purely temporal authority.

"I'll bet she didn't think much of that," someone said.

"No, not likely," another agreed. "But then she'll have been raised on stories of how the chantry sided with Orlais during the occupation, wouldn't she?"

"True, true... and still does all too often, don't they. Didn't raise a hand to help fight to Blight, did they? Word is Loghain had a force of Orlesian Grey Wardens turned back at the border, them and their escort – five wardens, and an _escort_ of five hundred chevaliers."

Varel half-listened to the conversation as he worked on finishing off the braided hilt, neatly tucking in the cut-off ends of the leather strips. He'd glue them later, so they couldn't come loose, but that would have to wait until he was back home, and could heat up his pot of glue over the fire. He put the finished hilt down in the basket, and picked up a second one and another handful of strips, two colours of them this time for a fancier look. He'd just finished starting the new braid when he became aware of the peculiar change of tone of conversation that signalled the presence of a stranger – a human stranger – within the alienage. It was a subtle thing, the breaking off of conversations followed by them continuing among the same people but now on different, safer subjects, a slight tenseness and fear in some people's voices, or a show of studied unconcern among others.

"Varel? He's right over there on the bench," he heard a familiar female voice say loudly, and looked up to see Shianni pointing his direction, talking to a tall young man...

"Oswyn!" he exclaimed, letting his work drop unheeded into the basket at his feet as he rose, grinning in surprised pleasure at the other man.

Varel grinned back at him, and hurried over, as much as he could hurry when hobbling along on a cane, Shianni following along in his wake. He came to an abrupt stop a pace away from Varel, looking suddenly hesitant. Varel grinned, and reached out to clap the larger man on the arm. "Good to see you again," he said, smiling warmly at him.

Oswyn's grin widened. "Good to see you again as well, Varel," he said, almost shyly, as if he'd been uncertain of his welcome.

"So who is this, Varel? One of your mercenary friends?" Shianni interrupted, looking suspiciously at Oswyn and his cane.

Varel gave her an annoyed look. The woman never could keep her nose out of everybody else's business. Word was she'd been bitterly disappointed not to be made _hahren;_ Varel suspected Valendrian had passed her over, even after her role in helping to root out the Tevinter slavers and save the old man's life, because of her lack of diplomacy and tact. There were too many elves that she'd managed to rub the wrong way over the years.

"No, he's no mercenary," he told her, then smiled at Oswyn again. "Here, have my seat," he said, gesturing at where he'd been sitting and stepping to the side, rather pointedly putting his back to Shianni before she could ask any further prying questions. "You look like you need it more than I."

Oswyn gave him a grateful smile, and nodded politely to the other two elves already seated there before turning and carefully lowering himself to sit. They cautiously nodded back, watching him out of the corner of their eyes, probably wondering who he was as well, but too polite to pry. "Thank you. It was a longer walk to get here than I though it would be; I almost got lost, the city is so changed. There's been so much destruction," he said, shaking his head and frowning. "I knew it had been bad, but hearing about it or seeing it from a distance, and actually seeing some of it up close for myself... and this even _after_ several years of reconstruction..." he trailed off, and shook his head again.

Varel nodded. "It was quite a shock for me to see as well. So many changes..."

Oswyn nodded, then craned his head to look up at the tree behind him, its canopy spread wide overhead. "Maker but that's one huge tree... there's a few really old trees on my father's lands that might rival it for size, but I've never seen one like this before. What is it? Some sort of oak?"

Varel grinned. "No. It's called a vhenadahl; they'll only grow where elves live. There's one in every alienage. No one is quite sure any more where they came from, or why they die without elves around. It's part of the forgotten knowledge," he added, looking up at the canopy briefly as well, before turning his attention back to Oswyn.

Oswyn was looking reasonably well – less gaunt than he had earlier in the summer, anyway, though still definitely on the far-too-skinny side of things. And judging by the deep lines bracketing his mouth and the cautious way he was moving, he was also in some considerable pain today; it made Varel feel even more surprised by the man's presence.

"I interrupted you, didn't I," Oswyn said, peering down interestedly at the basket at his feet. "What were you working on?"

"Nothing important – just some piece-work to make a little money while I look for real work."

"Piece-work?"

"Stuff that I get paid by the piece to make. I'm wrapping weapon handles for a smith to use in his work; he supplies the hilts and leather strips, and I do the work on them, and get paid a penny for every one I braid."

"That doesn't sound like very much," Oswyn said, frowning slightly.

Varel shrugged. "It's not, but it adds up fairly well of you can make things quickly. I can earn several silver an hour on a good day, though I can only work for so long on them before my hands start to cramp up and my eyes begin to swim."

That startled a laugh out of Oswyn, and made the elves to either side of him grin in appreciation as well. Oswyn looked around, clearly taking in how pretty much everyone seated in the square – and there was quite a crowd of them out today, a good thirty to forty scattered around the base of the tree or along the edges of the open space – had something in their hands and was working on it. "So everyone here is doing piecework then?" he asked.

"Almost all," Varel agreed, looking around. "A few may be working on things for themselves."

Oswyn looked interestedly at the woman to his left, studying the length of lace hanging from the tiny metal hook she was using. "That's beautiful work," he observed. "And you're so fast!"

She smiled slightly and nodded, fingers barely slowly as she divided her attention between her lace and him. "Thank you," she said complacently, then smiled. "The speed comes from years of practise... my mother started me on the lace-making when I was about six or seven."

Oswyn nodded. The poor, like nobles, started learning necessary skills at a young age; the poor since every penny earned was one more coin between them and homelessness or starvation, and the nobles because there were so many skills they were expected to already know well by the time they'd reached puberty. At six or seven he'd already had his first weapon – a fine dagger with a pretty enamel-work hilt, one he still owned, though it was too small now to use as anything more than a belt knife, or to have sticking decoratively out of a boot sheath. He was given lessons in beginning weapons-work, horsemanship – he'd had a pony since the age of four – and his tutor was already working on drumming the basics of reading, penmanship, mathematics, geography, dancing, history and heraldry into his young skull. Had he been a girl he'd have also had lessons in cooking, everything related to the creation of clothing from the production of flax and wool fibre through carding, spinning, dyeing, knitting, crocheting, weaving, lace-making, and sewing – both plain and fancy – as well as singing, the playing of musical instruments, the writing of poetry, household management, and diverse other skills to learn on top of that.

He looked at the little rounded wooden bits the man to his right was making. "And what are these for?" he asked, perplexed, having never seen their like.

The man smiled slightly. "Joinery pegs, ser. For holding furniture together. I get the roughed-in bits like this," he said, and paused in his work to take a little block of wood out of the basket at his side, a bit of wood about as long as the last two joints of his littlest finger, and roughly half an inch square. "Furniture man has one of the apprentices cut them out of planks with a fine saw; fast work for them. And then I trim down the blanks, round them off so they'll fit right-and-tight in a drilled hole. Like this," he said, returning to work on the one he'd been working on, his knife paring off careful curls of wood from the squared edges and rapidly turning it into a round peg instead. "I get a penny a dozen, for the softwoods, and a penny per eight for the hard."

"And how do they get used? In drilled holes, you said?"

"Yeah. Drill a hole into the two pieces that need to be held together, dollop of glue in each hole, drop in the peg and hammer them tight. Sand off the end of the peg flush with the surface. There's a row of them right there, by your hand," he added, pointing with the tip of his knife at the surface of the bench between them. "They go down through the bench and into the top of the leg they've holding on."

Oswyn looked at them, then bent far enough forward to see the supporting leg – little more than a plank of wood with a wedge cut out of the bottom end – that the pegs were holding on. "Huh. So that's how it's done. I've sometimes wondered... though I can't remember seeing the peg ends like this on most furniture."

The old man grinned. "There's tricks to hiding them, for finer pieces. Like only drilling partway through from the underside, so the top surface is left smooth. Or say you're making a book-case, and you pound the pegs through into the ends and back-edge of the shelves, then cover the outside of the case with a framework of nice wood, smooth or carved depending on how fancy a piece it is, running over top of where the holes are."

"Ah! I've seen bookcases like that!" Oswyn exclaimed, looking pleased. He looked like he was about to say more, then suddenly he went pale as milk, his head lifting and turning sharply as he craned to look around the curve of the tree's truck, off to his right. "Blasted knife-ears – is that you there?" he called out, struggling to rise to his feet.

A silence fell, nearby elves turning to stare at Oswyn, some looking offended, most with their faces studiously blank. There was a brief silence, then... " _Noisy bastard!_ Maker's breath and balls..." and Shianni's cousin Soris came hurrying into view, his face as pale as Oswyn's.


	13. Chapter 13

Oswyn had been sure he was imagining things when the familiar voice first reached his ears; just a few words, the end of a sentence. And then a moment later the voice returned, responding to something someone was saying, by the cadence of it, and he was calling out and rising to his feet before he even had a chance to consider how inappropriate his words might sound.

He didn't have time to feel embarrassed, in the hush that fell after his outburst. Not when it was answered by the right words, the pejorative phrase the guards had sneeringly referred to him by, and a young male elf hurried into view, looking pale and more than a little frightened. He came to a stop a couple of paces away, and they just stared at each. He'd never gotten a good look at the elf in the end cell, just a glimpse of a pale-skinned, darkish-haired form lurking in the shadows of the cell as he was carried in by the guards or jailors to be unceremoniously dumped within the confines of his own. And once a hand resting curled around one of the bars, a narrow strip of poorly-lit face, a single pale eye peering out at him. The eyes were right; pale grey. And the red hair would have looked darker, greasy and unkempt in the filthy dungeon.

"Knife?" he asked, uncertainly, the elf's nick-name among the prisoners, on those rare quiet nights when they spoke quietly back and forth between the cells in the jailors' absence. The prisoners avoided using real names, or talk of their pasts, especially of how they'd come to be there. The jailors sometimes eavesdropped, supposedly, and it was better not to know too much about each other. Safer, though that was a highly relative term.

"Yeah," the elf said, looking him over as intently as he'd just examined the elf. "Maker, Noisy... I thought you were dead. Never saw hide nor hair of you after you were hauled off that last time..."

That brought back memories better left untouched. He sat down again suddenly, hard enough to jolt him and send all his joints to protesting, an eye-watering pain. He lowered his head swiftly toward his knees as he came damned near to fainting with the shock of it all. Greyed out for a little, with a roaring sound in his ears. Vision and normal sounds returned quickly enough. He could hear voices, and someone to his left was holding his arm, patting his shoulder. The woman with the lace? But no, when he turned his head far enough to see, it was legs in leather leggings to that side now, not the drab-coloured dress that had been there. Varel then, by the colour of them.

"...wasn't insulting me. That was my name, in the dungeons. He was _there_."

Knife, defending him to someone. He managed to raise his head at last, found the elf standing just to his right, between him and that red-haired young woman who'd first directed him to Varel, the inquisitive one, a look of distrust and suspicion on her face. He reached out, missed, then managed to catch at and tug on the man's shirt hem. The elf started, and turned to look at him.

"What's your _real_ name," he asked, his own voice thin and shivery with reaction still. "I'm Oswyn."

And the young elf smiled. "Soris," he said. And turned to clasp Oswyn's hand, firmly. "And I'm damned glad to see you alive. Oswyn."

He grinned back. "The same, Soris. I wondered, afterwards... but I was senseless with fever for months afterwards. And there was no way to find out, once I did recover."

Soris nodded, then smiled. "Do you have time to talk? We could go to my place... it's just down the street," he said, and gestured toward one of the exits from the square. "Varel too, of course."

He nodded agreement, and Varel helped him to his feet, putting his cane back in his hand, then the pair guided him away.

"I should have realized you two might know each other," Varel was saying to Soris as they crossed to the street Soris had indicated. "I'd even mentioned to Oswyn after I first met him that I knew an elf who'd been in that dungeon."

"You did? I don't remember that," Oswyn said, frowning.

"It was while we were having breakfast, in that meadow on the mountain... I'd asked how you'd been injured..."

"Oh, right. I wasn't tracking very well that morning," Oswyn said, and grimaced. "Too much pain."

They stopped at a door. The female elf was still with them, Oswyn was surprised to notice. She stepped past them, opening the door and then stepping aside, holding it open while they entered. She closed it once they were in. "I'll make tea," she said, and stalked off to the far end of the room, where a small bed of embers glowed in a sizable fireplace.

"My cousin, Shianni," Soris said in a low voice to Oswyn. "She had a bad experience with Vaughan Kendalls. Not the dungeon... upstairs."

Oswyn nodded once, understanding what Soris wasn't saying. Vaughan and his particular group of friends had always had an unsavoury reputation, even before his disappearance; he'd heard enough since to know that 'unsavoury' barely began to describe that particular young man and his tastes. A bad seed – and one that apparently hadn't fallen far from the tree. Those dungeons, the trained torturers – they had been there since long before Arl Urien's death and his son's disappearance. Rendon and Urien had always been particularly close friends; given his own experiences in Howe's hands in the Kendalls' dungeon, Oswyn felt little doubt as to what a large part of the basis of that friendship had been; shared unsavoury interests. Shared cruel tastes.

He was given a seat on a chest, the top of it covered with a collection of worn and faded cushions. Varel and Oswyn pulled a couple of chairs out from the table and took seats near him, while Shianni busied herself at the fire, putting a kettle of water on and measuring tea leaves into a clay pot.

There followed explanations to Soris of how Varel and Oswyn had met. Then Soris told Oswyn the full, ugly story of how he'd come to be in the dungeon, a story he'd never dared to tell him while they were both in the dungeon itself. An ugly story, of a wedding interrupted and what should have been a day of celebration instead becoming a night of cruelty and death. Afterwards Oswyn told his own much shorter, simpler tale. A lot of tea was consumed, along with slices of a nutty-flavoured coarse brown bread.

"So what have you done since you were freed, Soris?" Oswyn asked, thinking it better not to linger on their time in the dungeon.

Soris smiled, shrugged. "Made a reasonably good life for myself. It was hard at first. The woman I was supposed to marry survived the incident that landed me in the Kendalls' dungeon, but by the time I got out, she was gone; you heard about the Tevinter slavers in the alienage? They took her away," he said, looking grim for a moment. "My uncle, as well – she'd been staying with him."

"I told her not to trust those low-lifes," Shianni said bitterly, pouring out more tea for everyone. "But no one wanted to listen to me, not until it was far too late for most people."

"Anyway, with her gone, likely forever, and the two of us never even properly married... well, I went and saw our hahren, Valendrian, and he arranged a new wife for me," Soria said, and smiled warmly. "It's worked out very well; Lila is a wonderful woman. She's at work right now – she works as a waitress in one of the new taverns around the market, though she won't be doing that for very much longer – she's four months pregnant," he explained, his smile widening further.

"Congratulations!" Oswyn exclaimed, smiling happily back at him, then turned to look questioningly at Varel. "You'd mentioned the hahren would likely be pushing you to marry also...?"

Varel nodded, and smiled. "Yes. The new hahren, Alarith, is slightly more patient than Valendrian would have been; he gave me an entire week to settle in before he started hinting about arranging a wife for me. Anyway, he just told me the other day that he'd found someone for me already – a young widow from the Kirkwall Alienage. She should be here in a little over a week, he says, on the next ship that passage can be arranged for her on."

Oswyn blinked. "That's... rather quick, isn't it?" he asked.

Varel shrugged. "Not really. He already has a list of the single men and women in other alienages that would be willing to relocate to here. It was mainly just a case of interviewing me so he had a good idea of what sort of woman I'd get along with, and then seeing if there was one like that on his lists, whose likes I matched."

"And what sort of wife were you looking for?" Shianni asked a little waspishly. "Someone to cook for you and clean up after you?"

"No," Varel said calmly. "I want a wife that's my partner, not my mother. I asked for someone reasonably self-sufficient, who won't mind it if I get further work as a guard or mercenary and spend long periods of time away from home."

Shianni sniffed, but didn't comment further.

"What about you, Oswyn?" Soris asked. "What have you been doing, since...?"

Oswyn smiled humourlessly. "Not much," he admitted, and looked away. "It's... been hard, learning to live with the damage that was done to me. With the limitations I have now, that I didn't before. I was sick for a long time after the rescue... infections, mostly. It was months before I was well enough to even try getting out of bed, most of a year before I could walk without help. Howe really did a number on me," he said bitterly. He found himself rubbing his hands on his aching knees. They always ached. Every joint did, to greater or lesser degree, depending on just what had been done to injure it.

He shivered suddenly; their conversation had made him forget for a while his earlier upset, but now it had returned again, and he found himself overwhelmed with memories of pain and helplessness, of his total inability to defend himself from Howe. He'd never have imagined how easily he could be overcome, before he'd landed in that madman's hands, and found that all his years of combat practise and all his martial skill was worthless against a man who cared nothing about _fair_ , or about giving him even the slightest of chances to defend himself, and everything about pain and degradation. He'd never had a chance to fight back, from the moment he slipped into drugged sleep in that back-alley bar until he escaped over the wall, broken in body and soul.

The shivering got worse, as one bad memory led to another. He felt faint again, was vaguely aware of concerned voices, then of a hand on the back of his neck, pushing him forward. He started to struggle, before he realized it was Varel, urging him to put his head down. He did, resting his forehead on the age-worn edge of the table, the wood smooth and cool against his skin. The dizziness passed, replaced by self-conscious embarrassment. It had been a long time since he'd last managed to tip himself over into a panic like this.

"Here, get this into him." Shianni's voice, surprisingly gentle, belying her prickly attitude so far.

Hands tugged him back upright, and he felt a cup being pressed to his lips. "Drink this, Oswyn," Varel said. He took a cautious sip. More tea, this time well-sweetened with honey, and cut with something strongly alcoholic. He grimaced at the taste, but drank several sips before closing his mouth and shaking his head. "Sorry," he croaked out, shivering still but in after-reaction now, not in anxiety.

Soris patted him wordlessly on the arm, while Varel set the cup down on the table before him. Shianni had vanished; when she returned a moment later, she was carrying a heavy blanket, which she draped around his shoulders before resuming her seat. The three elves talked quietly among themselves, mostly minor gossip about mutual friends, giving Oswyn time to pull himself back together. Their kindness and understanding touched him.

He found himself thinking about that, as he sat quietly, taking occasional sips of the tea; considering how Varel had known so well what to do to bring him out of his funk back at the castle. How Soris had been in that dungeon also, and the circumstances that had brought him there. How _long_ the Kendalls had been preying on the elves in the Denerim alienage, even before Howe had taken over and sold most of them off into slavery. He knew elves were largely looked down upon and often mistreated by humans, but it had never really sunk in before what that meant for their daily lives. Small wonder they knew how to handle someone dealing with the black melancholy; they must have seen it many times before, among their own.

"Thank you for your hospitality," he said once the tremors had stopped. "I should go." He shook his head to Soris and Shianni's polite protests, and rose, removing the blanket from around his shoulders and putting it down on top of the chest he'd been sitting on, before picking up his cane again. "No, really, it's getting late," he told them, and smiled at Soris. "I would like to meet your wife, but perhaps another day."

Soris looked a little disappointed, but nodded agreeably.

"I'll walk with you as far as the market," Varel said in a firm, no-arguments sort of voice. "I need to pick up some odds and ends there anyway. Soris, Shianni... see you later."

Oswyn nodded to the pair, and led the way out the door, Varel following silently along. He paused a few steps from the door, realizing he didn't know which direction to go to find his way back out of the alienage.

"This way," Varel said quietly, stepping up beside him, and nodding off down the laneway to their right.

They walked in silence at first, Oswyn concentrating on keeping his balance as he picked his way across the uneven cobbles and mud-slimed dips of the narrow laneway to where it intersected a wider street. From there Oswyn could see the crude gate and archer's platforms that guarded the approach from the market bridge. "We didn't get much chance to talk," he said as he turned that way.

"No, we didn't," Varel agreed, then gave Oswyn a curious look. "Why did you come? I'm sure it must have been for more than to learn about piecework, or be reunited with Soris."

"Especially since I knew nothing about either before I arrived," Oswyn agreed with a crooked smile. "I came to see you, to talk for a while. I found myself missing spending time with you, after you'd left. I..." he fell silent for a few steps, trying to sort out his muddled feelings. "I remembered you saying that you'd like to be my friend. And how you were, for all the time that you were at the castle, even though I never even said yes or no... I have very few friends left, since the Blight Year. I think I need one," he added, coming to a stop and looking at Varel, feeling more than a little uneasy. What if Varel's words had just been meant as a spur-of-the-moment kindness, not really meant to be taken seriously, or he'd changed his mind since returning to the alienage...

Varel's warm smile reassured him. "I would be honoured to be counted among your friends," the young elf said. "However few or many they are."

Oswyn found himself smiling back with equal warmth. "Good," he said, quietly. He turned away, began walking again. "Thank you. I..."

Whatever he was about to say next was lost as the tip of his cane abruptly skidded across the cobblestones just as he put his weight on it. He lost his balance, and in struggling to regain it his left foot came down on a slimy patch and shot out from under him, throwing his entire unbalanced weight forward onto his right leg, which could not support it. He had only time to know he was falling, to feel hands catching at his shirt, and then he hit the ground, hard enough to knock the wind out of him, only by sheer luck managing to cushion his head so that it hit his own forearm rather than the cobblestones. He didn't quite black out, not like he had up on the mountain, but the pain in his joints and back had him unable to see anything but haze for a long moment, his head swimming too from the sudden lack of air.

"Oswyn! Oswyn, are you all right?" he heard Varel asking, could hear other voices nearby, witnesses to his fall.

He finally managed a gasping inhale, followed by a pained moan. "Not really," he said, voice shaky, as his vision slowly cleared. He was sprawled almost face-down in the street, rolled a little to one side with his right arm bent under his head, the left flung out to the side, aching from the shock of breaking his fall. "Maker, I hurt..." he groaned out, then bit his lower lip to stifle a whimper of pain. It had been a bad fall; at least two of his old injuries had torn again, by the feel of it, scar tissue forced further than it could stretch in his attempt to stop the fall, in addition to bruising from the fall itself. He wasn't going to be able to get back to his feet, much less walk, he realized, and felt a surge of panic. If he went back to the townhouse like this... he'd have to be carried on a stretcher, all the way from the alienage to the upper city. Everyone would see him, injured and helpless. And the servants and guards at the townhouse, they'd send word to his father. What would his father think, hearing that he'd snuck off without his guards and managed to get himself hurt...


	14. Chapter 14

"Can you move? Are you able to stand?" Varel asked anxiously, as he crouched in the street beside Oswyn, one hand touching his shoulder.

"No. Something tore, when I went down," Oswyn said, and bit his lip again for a moment, obviously in considerable pain.

Varel cursed quietly, then looked around. "Jase! Go get the hahren; tell him I need a couple of strong men, and something to use for a stretcher," he called to the first person he recognized, then looked back down at Oswyn. "Where should we take you? Where are you staying?"

"I'm staying at the family townhouse. But... _please_ , don't take me there. I don't want anyone to see..." Oswyn said, then broke off, biting his lip again as his eyes filled with tears. He turned his head, burying his face in the crook of his arm. Ashamed to be seen in this condition, Varel guessed.

Varel was quiet a moment, then gently patted his shoulder. "All right," he said softly. "I'll take you to my place, I suppose... though getting you up the stairs is going to be a job and a half."

The hahren arrived just then, with others. "What happened here?" he asked Varel, looking worried. Humans getting injured in the alienage was always cause for worry; it had been used as the excuse for oppression against the elves – anything from harsh new laws to violence against them – more than once in the past.

Alarith's worry would be even worse if he was aware that Oswyn wasn't just any random human, but a nobleman's son, Varel found himself thinking, and was glad that he was the only one there aware of the man's lineage. "An accident – my friend tripped and fell. He's hurt, but not badly. I need help to carry him up to my place; he doesn't have anywhere else to go until he can walk again."

There was a brief silence. "A _shem?_ " someone muttered.

" _Hssst!_ None of that; the man's hurt, not senseless," Alarith said sharply. "If Varel wants to give his friend shelter for a few days while he recovers, that's his business, and maybe mine, but it's certainly not yours. Now you lot clear out of here instead of standing around gawking. Come on, let's get him onto the stretcher."

"Thank you, Alarith," Varel said quietly a moment later, as the area cleared apart from Alarith and a handful of his cronies. They put the stretcher down on the ground behind Oswyn, then carefully rolled him over backwards onto it, the movement enough to draw a brief cry of pain from the injured young man.

"You sure it wouldn't be better to take him straight to a healer?" Alarith asked, a touch anxiously.

"I don't need a healer," Oswyn insisted, his words made somewhat less convincing by his pale and sweaty look, the obvious pain he was in. "It's an old scar torn open is all... it's happened before. I just need to rest while it heals."

Alarith studied him intently for a moment, then sighed and conceded. "All right. But Varel, if you think later that he needs a healer after all, you let me know. All right?"

"Yes, hahren."

"Good. All right, let's get him to Varel's place," Alarith told his men. They groaned when they heard the address and realized there were many stairs to be climbed.

Getting the stretcher up the stairs was not an easy task; at least it was a warehouse his place was in, not one of the tenement buildings, so they were reasonably wide and not overly steep. Still, Oswyn had to suffer through a certain amount of painful bumping around in order to get him upstairs. Then there was the difficulty of moving him off of the stretcher and onto the bed, filling the small room from side-to-side as it did. Alarith quickly decided that the only workable way to transfer Oswyn was going to be to put the stretcher down on the floor at the foot of it, then have several people work together to lift him up off of it, and lay him down across the foot of the bed.

"He's all over muck from the street," someone pointed out. "Should we strip him first?"

"No," Varel said quickly, knowing how body-shy Oswyn was, presumably because of whatever scars his clothing hid. "Better not to jostle him around any more right now than necessary." He quickly tugged loose and folded back the sheets, then dug a spare blanket out of the deep drawer in the base of the armoire, folded it in half, and spread that over the foot of the bed. "There, that'll protect the mattress until I can help him clean up and change."

The men nodded, Oswyn giving him a brief grateful look. Varel did at least unfasten Oswyn's belt and remove his boots first, putting them safely aside. Then the men transferred Oswyn from the stretcher to the bed – not without drawing another pained groan from the man – after which Varel walked them all to the door, thanking them for their help, and slipping some coins to Alarith to pay for it. Discretely, of course; had Oswyn been another elf, there'd have been no question of them asking any pay for the hard job they'd just done, but with it being a shem, it seemed politic to tip them under the guise of asking Alarith to treat them all to a drink.

Once the door had closed behind them, he returned to the bedroom. Oswyn was lying very still, his jaw set slightly, his eyes closed. He opened them as he heard Varel enter. "Thank you," he said.

Varel nodded. "Are you sure you're really okay?" he asked.

"Yes. I've done this before; managed to fall, and hurt myself. It'll heal on its own, as long as I don't move much. By the feel of it, I've torn something in my right knee, maybe sprained my left wrist, bruised my ribs, and my back is none-too-happy either. Or my neck. Or my head," he added, managing a thin smile.

Varel smiled back. If the man could joke about it, then it must not be too serious, he hoped. "Anything that can be done to help with any of that?" he asked.

"Cold compresses for the wrist and knee," Oswyn answered. "Warmth for my back, maybe some chamomile tea; it'll help the muscles to relax. Or willow bark tea, for the pain."

Varel nodded. "All right. I still need to go to the market to pick up a few things; I'll see if I can find any chamomile or willow bark while I'm there. You just rest while I'm gone."

Oswyn smiled faintly. "I'll do that," he agreed.

Varel hurried out and down the stairs, threading his way quickly through the narrow streets to the bridge that led to the market. He quickly picked up the few things he'd already been planning to purchase anyway, things he was running low on like bread and sausages, and then stopped at the stall of an apothecary, where he was able to get both a pouch of dried chamomile flowers and a twist of strips of willow bark. The willow would be vilely bitter, he knew from personal experience, and stopped to pick up a small jar of honey as well before finally heading back home. He carried everything upstairs, then made a second trip to fetch a bucket of water from one of the few wells in the alienage, as well as buying a jar of clean water from a street vendor. The well water would need to be strained and boiled before it could safely be used for anything; the water from the vendor was already-boiled rainwater, far less likely to cause a flux or infection.

He put some of the clean water on to heat for tea, then wrapped a damp cloth around the resealed jar to cool what was left of it. Some of the well water also went on to heat, poured carefully through a clean cloth into a larger pot, after which he quickly prepared a simple meal of bread, cheese, and thin slices of a spicy dried sausage. He carried a chair into the bedroom, then fetched the food and sat down within easy reach of Oswyn, handing him a slice of bread topped with cheese and sausage. "Get yourself on the outside of that, first of all," he told the other man. "Then we'll see about getting you cleaned up. Water's heating to make tea, and for washing."

Oswyn nodded, looking a little uneasy, then ate, as neatly as he could with just one hand and flat on his back. Once they'd eaten their fill, Varel carried the few leftovers back out to the main room. The small pot of clean water was bubbling nicely; he put some of the flowers and a couple strips of bark into a mug and poured hot water over them, setting them aside to steep, then poured what was left into his washbasin, carrying it and some soap and a couple of washcloths into the bedroom.

He could see that Oswyn was unsettled at the necessity of having his mud-slimed clothing removed; he was pale and shaking slightly. Varel paused, frowning. "We can leave this until later if you prefer," he said. "Though I think you'll be more comfortable once you've been cleaned up, and it'll certainly be easier to tend your injuries."

Oswyn nodded jerkily. "Better sooner than later," he said. "Before I think myself into a panic. Just..." he paused, and swallowed uneasily. "Lying down like this, I can't really move much to help with taking off things like my shirt. You can just c-cut it off... if you need to..." he paused for a moment, his breathing unsteady, eyes large and frightened.

He'd had clothing cut off of him before, Varel guessed, and for no good reason. He nodded. "Let's see what we can do," he said quietly, and sat down on the edge of the bed beside Oswyn. "Would you prefer to undo things yourself, or...?"

"I'll try," Oswyn said faintly, and started unlacing his shirt. It was a simple linen tunic, cut to fit very loosely, laced at the neck, and with the voluminous sleeves gathered into plain buttoned cuffs. Something he could put on and take off without having to either raise his arms high or reach back behind himself, Varel judged.

"I think we can get that off without having to damage it," he said neutrally once Oswyn had the laces and buttons undone, and moved to stand near Oswyn's head. Taking a grip on the lower hem to either side of Oswyn's waist, he tugged firmly on the fabric, working it up underneath Oswyn's back, until it was all bunched up just below the man's armpits. "Lift your head and arms a little," he said. Oswyn curled as much as he could, and Varel pulled the back of shirt out from underneath him and over his head. He had to put one hand on Oswyn's back to steady him; the skin felt odd there, strangely textured. Scars, he thought, and carefully didn't react to it. With the body of the shirt free, it was a simple matter for Oswyn to straighten his arms up in the air in front of him, and let Varel pull the sleeves free as well.

It took some effort not to react to what he could see, now that the shirt was gone. The marks of torture were clear, in scars from cuts and burns scattered here and there across Oswyn's arms and torso, his reddened and swollen joints, an odd jog in the shape of his upper left arm where Varel guessed the bone had been broken and then left to heal without being properly set. Seeing the areas where scars lay thickest, hindering the stretch of muscles or the movement of joints, Varel remembered Oswyn's words from during their walk down the mountain; " _Howe purposefully crippled me. He didn't want me dead; not right away, anyway. He wanted me in pain and unable to defend myself._ " It made him feel sick. That any man could do this to another; worse, that any man could _enjoy_ doing this to another.

Oswyn had his head turned away, his face set in a nearly blank expression now, his distress over revealing his scarring to someone else's view shown only in the tightness of his jaw, and the faint trembling of his hands as he unlaced his leggings so that they could be removed as well. Varel removed his stockings for him, schooling his own face to remain unperturbed as he moved to help Oswyn strip off further, leaving the man dressed in just his smallclothes.

Oswyn's legs were even more heavily marked than his arms and torso, seamed with heavy scarring, including a sizable depression visible in the flesh of his left thigh. Both his knees were reddened and swollen, the left knee only slightly, the right knee noticeably so from its re-injury. The single most disturbing thing, Varel found himself thinking, was how oddly symmetrical much of the visible scarring was; a pattern of small round scars on one knee reflected in a similar pattern on the other. Pale linear marks on the arch of Oswyn's right foot echoed by equally pale twins on the arch of the left, and so on. That more than anything made it obvious how deliberate the damage had been. _Planned_ , not anything even remotely possible to mistake for something accidental in nature.

His own hands were shaking a little as he picked up the bowl and washcloths from where he'd left them on the seat of the chair. He dampened one cloth and handed it to Oswyn, then dampened the other. While Oswyn carefully cleaned his own face and as much of his torso and arms as he could easily reach, Varel quickly wiped clean the few places on Oswyn's legs where the mud had soaked through his leggings, keeping his touch as gentle and impersonal as he could, trying not to dwell overly much on the possible causes of some the scars.

The worst of the mess now dealt with, Varel worked the mud-spotted blanket out from underneath Oswyn, cleaning any additional smears of grime from the man's skin as he worked his way up from feet to head. Thankfully the worst of the mess stuck to Oswyn's clothing had been on the front of them, so there was very little muck on the blanket itself. He pulled the blanket to the side in sections, letting it drape off the end of the bed to the floor, as he helped Oswyn to shift himself around enough to free it from underneath him. Once it was removed and kicked aside, he finished by covering Oswyn with a clean sheet, which made them both feel considerably more comfortable.

That done, he bundled the muddy clothes up in the blanket, setting it aside to take down to one of the local laundresses later. "The tea should be good and strong by now," he said, and carried the basin and washcloths out to the other room. He scooped the sodden flowers and limp bits of bark out of the mug, and sweetened it well with honey before carrying it in to the other room. He had to support Oswyn's shoulders so that the man could sit upright enough to drink it. Oswyn made a face at the taste, then drank it back quickly in several large swallows before handing the mug back to Varel.

When he returned to the larger room again, he took some time to clean up from their meal, and pour out the water left from sponge-bathing Oswyn. The well water was at a good hard boil by then, so he removed it from the heat to cool for later use, then dampened some cloths with what remained of the good water, wringing them out well before bringing them into the bedroom. He had to rearrange the sheet a little to bare Oswyn's swollen knee, then draped one cloth over it, and wrapped the other around the man's sprained wrist. The damp cloths would cool the skin as they dried; the best that could be done in the way of cold compresses, short of buying some very expensive ice from an ice house.

"Won't your people worry, if you don't come back?" he asked Oswyn as he straightened up the room a little.

"I can send them a message, tell them I'm staying at a friend's house for a few days, if you can find a runner to take it. I've got coin to pay for that – and for my share of the food, too," Oswyn added.

Varel nodded, and brought Oswyn his belt. From one pouch Oswyn dug out a scrap of parchment and a silverpoint, and scratched out a brief message. He folded the parchment and handed that to Varel, along with some coins from another pouch – a copper to pay the runner, and a few silvers to offset the cost of his food.

Varel took the laundry with him when he went out, dropping it off at a nearby laundress, then crossed the bridge to the market, where he quickly located a boy willing to earn a penny by carrying the message. On impulse he stopped at a baker's stall that was just closing for the night, before heading back to the alienage.

By the time he got back up to his rooms, there was a brilliant sunset sky visible out the windows. He lit a rushlight from the coals of the fire, then carried it in to the bedroom, putting it in a holder on the wall, where it cast a small pool of light on the rapidly darkening room.

"I picked us up a treat," he said, tossing a small cloth-wrapped parcel to Oswyn, then returned to the main room to fetch the jar of water so he could re-moisten the compresses.

"Oh, spice cookies!" Oswyn exclaimed. Varel had to smile at the delighted tone of the other man's voice.


	15. Chapter 15

Oswyn was surprised by the contents of the small cloth bag; a handful of small hard dark brown cookies, their tops glittering with crystallized sugar, redolent of honey, molasses, ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and anise seed. The spices and sugar imported from the far north made such things a rare and usually expensive treat. He took out only one, before closing and setting aside the bag, and sniffed it appreciatively before beginning to nibble at the crisp little cookie.

Varel came back in to the room, carrying a small ceramic jar wrapped in a damp cloth in one hand, and an empty bowl in the other. He set the bowl down on the chair, poured a little water from the jar into it, then removed the almost-dry cloth from Oswyn's knee and re-wet it before tucking it back in place. When he reached for the cloth around Oswyn's wrist, Oswyn obediently held his arm out, watching silently while Varel tended to him.

It should have made him feel bad, having the other man looking after him this way. Maker knew, he'd certainly felt horribly self-conscious about being tended by others during his long recovery. He'd _hated_ not being able to look after himself, being so dependant on others for everything from eating and keeping himself clean to emptying his bowels. He'd been so _relieved_ once he'd recovered enough that he could mostly do for himself, and had refused to take on a manservant to assist him permanently, even though doing so would likely have made things a lot easier for him. But Varel... maybe it was just how matter-of-factly he did everything; as if it wasn't anything special or noteworthy, just another task that needed doing – like maintaining your armour or oiling a good blade so it wouldn't rust. There wasn't the look of horrified pity in his eyes that Oswyn had seen all too often in the look of the servants tending him back home. No distaste, either – even when Varel had been helping him to sponge bathe earlier, and had seen his scars, he hadn't recoiled from them, nor stared at them. He'd looked, yes, as who wouldn't, but there'd been no obtrusive interest in them, no recoil from them, just a look of mild concern and the occasional faint frown.

"Thank you," he said quietly when Varel had finished re-wrapping his wrist.

Varel glanced at him, then nodded. "You're welcome," he said, then rose and walked over to the armoire. "Time to change for bed," he said.

"Oh," Oswyn said, and politely turned his head to look the other way. "Thank you for the cookies."

"You're welcome. I hope they're good, I haven't bought from that baker before. They certainly smelled good."

"They're delicious," Oswyn assured him, and took another bite out of the one still in his hand. A silence fell, broken only by the crunching of the cookie and the soft sounds of clothing being taken off and night clothes put on.

Varel had to step over Oswyn to get into bed; one foot up on the edge of it, by Oswyn's hips, and then a big step up and over. He lay down sideways across the bed, like Oswyn was, since there wasn't enough room for him to lay down the other way with Oswyn stretched out across the foot of it. Varel dragged over the pillows from the head of the bed, stuffing one in behind himself and helping Oswyn to get the other in under his own head.

Oswyn passed him the bag of cookies, and watched as Varel peered into it, selecting one, then settled back, the bag on the bed between them, and took his first bite. A smile lifted the elf's lips. "Mmmm," he went, then cupped his hand in front of his mouth for a moment. "Delicious!" he exclaimed happily around a mouthful of crumbs.

Oswyn laughed, and popped what was left of his cookie into his mouth, then took a second one. He felt surprisingly good, he realized, maybe not good physically, but... lying here, eating spice cookies, _this_ felt good. It took him a minute to realize why, and when it did, he had to stop eating because of the lump it brought to his throat; it reminded him of Miles. He and his milk-brother had been as close as real brothers. There was a period in his childhood right after his own mother had died when he'd been particularly prone to nightmares, and letting him sleep with Miles had been one of the few sure cures for them. So for several years, most nights Miles and he had shared the big bed in his suite of rooms. But some nights, the best nights, when his father allowed it, he'd sleep down in Miles' room instead, on Miles' much smaller bed, and his milk-mother, Miles' mother, would bring them a treat before bed – warm spiced milk, or a sweet pastry – and tuck them in and tell them a story until they fell asleep. Even after he had outgrown the nightmares they still sometimes shared a bed; it was comforting to do so. This felt like that; like being somewhere safe, with someone who he knew was his friend.

"Oswyn?" Varel said, a touch of worry in his voice. "Are you okay?"

Oswyn realized he had fallen silent and still, just lying there with a half-eaten cookie in one hand. "Sorry. It's just... memories, all of a sudden. Of my milk-brother Miles." And suddenly he found himself talking about Miles, explaining to Varel about who he was – who he had been. Milk-brother, best friend, and confidant. The two of them as close as brother; as close as twins were reputed to be, almost. Miles the older of them, by a little over a month, and the one of them more likely to think things through first before acting, the calm and careful one, with Oswyn the more reckless of the pair, given to impulsive decisions and sudden passionate interests. He found himself telling stories about them and the trouble they'd routinely gotten into, first as children, and then as young men. All the silly dangerous childish things they'd done together, growing up, and the more serious things once they were older.

It took a very long time, lying there while the rushlight slowly burned down, eating cookies and talking. He wanted Varel to know; it felt important to him, that the elf understand what Miles had been to him, what _his_ loss, among all the others, had meant to him. And Varel listened, quietly, attentively, asking questions occasionally, laughing and smiling in the right places, looking sober at other times.

"He sounds like he was a good man," Varel said quietly, when Oswyn finally wound down.

"He was. He was one of the best men I ever knew," Oswyn said, and swallowed thickly, blinking his eyes. "Everyone who met him liked him. He was a good leader, too – a natural at it. Father planned to train him up to be my guard-captain, someday. That was why Miles joined the army and went off to Ostagar," he added. "He needed more experience in real combat, and with large groups of fighters, he said. He never did things by half-measures; if he was going to be my guard-captain some day, he said, he wanted to know everything he could to do it right."

Oswyn fell silent then, thinking of the aftermath of that; of Miles' single short visit home, his bitterness, and then his disappearance, the long silence.

"I think the worst part of losing him," he said, slowly, eyes dry now but voice thicker than ever. "Is knowing that he died in Howe's dungeons. That he..." he broke off for a moment, then continued, voice little more than an uneven whisper. "That he would have had a long, hard death there, in the hands of Howe and his torturers. And part of me wonders if part of why he was snatched like that wasn't just his words about Ostagar – he was far from being the only survivor talking about what happened there – but because Howe knew of his connection to me. That Miles was taken in the hopes of luring me out to where I, too, could be snatched, and used to manipulate my father. That he _died_ because of me."

He did cry then, noisily and messily. It made his bruised ribs ache, and he felt horribly self-conscious at first, but Varel just quietly shifted around to sit cross-legged beside him, then took his hand and squeezed it, and just sat there and held it while he cried. And somehow that meant more to Oswyn than any words or comforting hug or _anything_ could have; that he was just quietly there.

When Oswyn had finally cried himself out, Varel rose and stepped over him, and fetched a cloth and helped him wipe his face clean. And then just quietly went about making more of the chamomile and willow-bark tea, and dampening the cloths again, before finally rejoining him on the bed.

"Sleep," Varel told him.

So he did.

* * *

Varel lay awake for a while, watching the other man sleep. The deep lines of pain on his face had smoothed out in sleep, making him look much younger. Seeing him like this, it was easy to believe that the two of them were actually pretty much of an age; Oswyn was actually younger than him, he'd been surprised to realize. Not by much, just a couple of years, but clearly his time in Howe's dungeon and the pain he'd had to live with ever since had aged him.

Not just the physical pain, either, which would have been bad enough on its own, but the emotional pain. Torture left more marks on a person than just the visible ones, and clearly Oswyn was just as scarred mentally as he was physically, if not more so. His fear that his milk-brother had been killed because of Miles' connection to him was clearly one of the larger ones; Varel had heard the guilt and shame in Oswyn's voice as he spoke of that fear. He couldn't imagine how that particular fear must feel, other than very bad.

He found himself feeling protective of the other man. Which was odd, given their relative social standings, but... not odd, at the same time. Oswyn, he found himself thinking, was a good man who'd been terribly hurt, nearly broken by his time in Howe's hands. And yet Howe had failed to break him; scarred him, yes, damaged him, _yes_ , but not truly broken him. And the man he still managed to be, who'd come to the alienage to visit Varel without any guards or fuss, who had been so clearly happy to have discovered that Soris had survived and was doing well... he was glad he'd offered the man his friendship, back at the castle. Oswyn needed a friend, he was now sure, and more importantly, he was someone worth being friends with – _not_ just because he was Bann Sighard's son and therefore a potentially valuable connection, which was the explanation for Varel's offer of friendship that most people would most likely jump to, but because he was _Oswyn_.

He wished he could have known the younger Oswyn; the one that had existed before Howe got his hands on him. He could imagine him easily enough, having seen traces of him in this older, more bitter man. Caught glimpses of him in Oswyn's anecdotes about himself and his milk brother Miles. He'd have laughed more, and smiled easily. Been given to jokes, when he wasn't being quietly serious. Someone who'd known what his future was, known what shape his life was likely to make in the world; a page, a squire, a young man-at-arms, a capable warrior and eventually his father's heir and being the Bann of Dragon's Peak, with a voice in the Landsmeet. Some day a noble bride, and children of his own, to carry on his line.

And now... well, he'd never be a warrior again. Oswyn might be able to defend himself with a light weapon in an emergency, if he had no other choice, but more likely he'd fall easy victim to anyone with half-decent weapon skills and a tolerably long blade. He'd lost his closest friend to Howe, lost many of his other friends to the events of the Blight Year. He'd lost his certainty in his future; still his father's heir, yes, but how must he feel about the prospect of a noble bride, to whom he'd have to reveal his scarred body? Assuming Howe had even left him capable of fathering children. And always, having to live with the memory of whatever had been done to him in Howe's hands, and the knowledge that others _knew_ he'd been in Howe's dungeon, and likely suspected some part of what terrible things had been done to him there.

Varel would never have imagined that he could come to care about what happened to any shem, much less a noble one, and yet... he had. He _liked_ Oswyn, and, yes, he wished to help and protect him, if he could. At least as much as it was possible for an alienage elf to help and protect a noble's son, he thought wryly.

And if that meant looking after him and giving him shelter in the alienage for a few days while he recovered from his fall – well, that was an easy enough task to take on. And it wasn't like he had anything else to spend his time on right now, apart from preparing for the arrival of his bride some time in the next week or two.

Closer to two, he hoped, and smiled, imagining how awkward it would be having a shem in his bed and a new bride on his doorstep.

Finally he too slept.


	16. Chapter 16

Varel woke early. He stared at the ceiling above him in puzzlement for a moment before he remembered why it was slanting down to one side of him instead of toward him. He was sleeping sideways on the bed, because Oswyn was occupying the foot of it.

He turned his head. Oswyn was still asleep. He'd rolled over on one side during the night, his back now turned to Varel, the sheet pushed down to his waist. Varel froze, staring.

He'd known that Oswyn's back was scarred; he'd _felt_ the scars, when he'd put his hand against Oswyn's back to support him. He'd expected it to be whipping scars perhaps, even burns, but _this_... he'd never seen or heard of anything like this. An intricate pattern of thinner and thicker lines, in a swirling mass that swept from just below the nape of Oswyn's neck, down across his right shoulder-blade, and then curved over to the left over the small of his back before disappearing under the sheet, presumably continuing down to his left buttock and hip. It was both eerily beautiful and gut-churningly vile, an ornate decoration cut directly into the man's flesh. He reached out to touch the flowing lines of it before he could stop himself, unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes.

At his touch Oswyn started awake, almost rolling right off the bed onto the floor as he flinched away from Varel's hand. Varel had to lunge after him, catching him by the arm and pulling him over onto his back again. Oswyn lay there, gasping for air, the fear fading quickly from his eyes as he looked around and recognized where he was and that it was Varel who had grabbed him.

"Sorry! I'm sorry, Oswyn," Varel exclaimed. "I should have realized you might wake badly if I touched you," he added, too ashamed to admit _why_ he'd touched the other man.

Oswyn nodded, and tugged the sheet up, covering himself to the neck. "I should be the one saying he's sorry," he rasped out. "I panicked... "

"But it's my fault you did. I know better; I know to be careful around someone who's had bad past experiences. Some of the older mercenaries, if you had to wake them for any reason, you always stood well back from their bedroll and called their name. You never got close until you were sure they were awake, not unless you didn't mind finding yourself on your back in the dirt with a knife at your throat."

That drew a short laugh from Oswyn. "Voice of personal experience?"

Varel grinned, relieved that Oswyn was recovering from his fright so rapidly. "Yeah. Hazing ritual for the new recruits. Though they do at least make sure not to send anyone to wake up any of the worst 'stab first, ask questions later' sorts until they're sure the recruits know better than to get too close."

Oswyn snorted. "Sounds like the mercenaries were charming sorts."

"They weren't too bad, really," Varel said thoughtfully. "They were okay people to work with, usually, and most of them also didn't care about me being an elf, as long as they knew they could depend on me in a fight. I'd have stayed on in the company quite happily, if it wasn't for the Commander being such scum."

Oswyn nodded, and fell silent, just staring up at the ceiling.

"How are you feeling this morning?" Varel asked after a while.

"Sore," Oswyn said, smiling crookedly.

"I'll make more tea," Varel said, rising up and stepping over Oswyn to get out of bed. He went and put the kettle on, then came back into the room to dampen the cloths around Oswyn's wrist and knee again. As he was repositioning the one on Oswyn's knee, the other man finally spoke again.

"My back," he said. "You saw it."

"Yes," Varel said softly, seeing no point in denying it. "I'm sorry for touching... I'd never seen anything like that before."

A brief pause. "I don't suppose anyone has. It was an idea of Howe's... _he_ did that. Practise, he said, for something he's like to someday do to his wife."

"His wife?" Varel asked, puzzled. "Wasn't he a widower?"

"You didn't hear about that? He'd abducted Queen Anora. Apparently he meant to force a marriage with her and do away with Loghain, not necessarily in that order, and make himself king. As much of Ferelden and related votes in the Landsmeet as he was controlling by then, either directly or through blackmail, he might have pulled it off, too. Except Katy Cousland happened to him first, and after what he'd done to her family, she had no inclination whatsoever toward mercy for him. Can't say that I blame her," he added, voice a little shaky.

"Maker," Varel said softly, appalled.

"Yeah. One of the times when he was in a talkative mood, just before the end – I never could decide which I hated more, the times when he bragged about what he was up to, or the times he just _did_ things to me without a word spoken – anyway, he told me all about his plans for Anora. She'd been naive enough to think she could trust him, and came secretly to see him at the Arl of Denerim's estate to ask his help dealing with her father. He saw his chance, and killed off her guards and locked her up. It might have ended there, but he was apparently stupid enough to leave her maid alive, and she escaped and brought word to Arl Eamon and the Grey Wardens. And in the course of rescuing Anora they saved all of us who were still alive in the dungeons there, and killed him."

Oswyn's voice was very shaky by the end, his hands trembling. He'd tried to sound calm as he spoke, but it was obvious to Varel that what he spoke of upset him deeply. He didn't know what to say, so he settled for doing something useful. "Your tea should be ready," he said quietly. "And we should have breakfast."

Oswyn nodded, and lowered his head, closing his eyes again. They were still closed when Varel returned some few minutes later, with a well-sweetened mug of the medicinal tea, as well as a pot of real tea, and some sliced bread and cheese. They ate there, Oswyn still on his back in bed, Varel sitting in the chair nearby, neither talking.

After the meal, Varel cleaned up, and then helped Oswyn to the chamberpot and back, a mutually embarrassing activity. He got another eyeful of Oswyn's scars during that, the man still being dressed in nothing but his smalls. After dumping and cleaning the pot, he checked on the man – he had his eyes closed again, and by the shallowness of his breathing might well have actually been asleep again – and then went out shopping.

* * *

Oswyn was awake when he returned, just lying there in bed staring up at the ceiling. He looked rather relieved to see Varel again. "It's very quiet here," he remarked.

Varel nodded. "We're four floors up. There are some workshops down on the ground floor, but there's a lot of storerooms and apartments between here and there. And this building isn't very populated, apart from the two lower floors; it's got a bad reputation since the Blight. The Tevinter slavers worked out of here; they kept the elves caged up downstairs and slipped them out of the city via the river, down to ships in the harbour."

"Tell me about that; I only heard some of it, well after the fact," Oswyn said interestedly.

"Sure. Let me help you into this first though," Varel said, taking a parcel out of his basket, and shaking it out to show that it was a long-sleeved nightshirt more than large enough for Oswyn to wear.

Oswyn smiled. "Thank you," he said, and with Varel's help was soon dressed and looking considerably relieved at being more modestly covered than he had been.

Varel got his work-basket, and covered more hilts in braid as he spent the morning telling Oswyn all he knew or had heard about the alienage riots, the Tevinter slavers, and their eventual exposure and demise. "That happened just after I'd left to join the Irregulars – that Warden, the Cousland girl, she was actually the one to bring me my recruitment letter, oddly enough. And then went on to stomp out a few nests of nastiness in the alienage itself, I've since heard – haunts and demons in an abandoned orphanage, in addition to those slavers."

"Demons!" Oswyn exclaimed, sounding fascinated. "I hadn't heard about that – what happened?"

"Very few outside the alienage ever heard, I believe. It goes back to the night of the riots again, and how all the bloodshed weakened the veil..."

By the time that tale was finished, it was midday, and time for lunch. Varel put together a barley pottage to cook for their supper that night, and for lunch served hard biscuits and some more of the spiced sausage they'd had the night before. And brewed yet more tea for Oswyn.

The swelling of Oswyn's knee and wrist were noticeably reduced when Varel dampened the cloths again; inactivity and the cool compresses were helping them to recover. He found himself studying the pattern of scars on Oswyn's knee as he wrung out the cloth before tucking it in around it again, trying to puzzle out what might have caused them. He looked up to find Oswyn watching him, and flushed. "Sorry," he said, embarrassed at being caught looking.

Oswyn suddenly smiled slightly. "A natural curiosity," he said. "You neither stare rudely at nor recoil from my scars. It's been rather difficult, learning to live with them; as much due to how most people react to them, as to how they've changed me," he said, sounding more rueful than anything else, then smiled crookedly. "I won't say I was exactly handsome even before my sojourn in the dungeon, but I was at least healthy and in good shape."

"I'm still sorry for staring," Varel said. "And for touching, this morning."

Oswyn nodded, then paused. "You know, I've never actually seen the scars on my back," he said, with a rather studied casualness. "I don't really know what they look like, apart from having once overheard one of the maids mentioning them to another, when she thought I was asleep. Like lace, she said. Short of having access to an uncommonly large mirror, there's no way for me to see them." He fell silent for a while. " _Do_ they look like lace?" he finally asked, sounding very nervous.

"From the glimpse I had of them... yes. Lace-like, anyway."

Oswyn flushed, and looked away. "Do you think... could you look at them, and try to describe them to me? It bothers me, the not knowing. I know how awful it felt when Howe did it; my mental image of what my back must look like is... rather ugly."

Varel chewed on his lip for a moment. "If you're certain you want me to."

"I am. Please," Oswyn said. "I want to know, and I trust you not to... not to make it sound any better or worse than it actually is."

"All right," Varel agreed.

With Varel's help, Oswyn rolled over on his side, and the two of them hiked up the nightshirt in back to reveal the scars. Varel studied them for a moment, noticing how still and tense Oswyn was. "It's very much like lace, the shapes of it," he finally began. "There's thicker and thinner lines, and areas of cross-hatching. I can even pick out motifs in it – flowers, and leaves, things like that."

Oswyn shivered slightly. "It's not horrific, then?" he asked, voice strained and uneasy.

"No, it's not. It's...striking, more than anything. I can show you, maybe," Varel said, and rose to his feet, digging through his gear in the bottom of the armoire, then returned and took a seat again.

"What are you doing?" Oswyn asked nervously, craning his head to try and look over his shoulder and see what Varel was doing.

"Drawing it, or trying to," Varel told him. "I had to learn drawing as part of being a scout in the mercenaries – to be able to make maps, and sketches of buildings and crests and things."

Oswyn nodded, and lay still while Varel worked away with parchment and a stub of charcoal. The tenseness slowly went out of his back and shoulders as he lay there, waiting patiently. "All right," Varel said after a while. "This is the best I can do."

Oswyn tensed up again as soon as he spoke. Varel leaned forward and passed the sheet of parchment to him, then sat back. Oswyn just lay there for a long time, intently studying the sheet as he held it in one hand. After a while he lifted his other hand, and gestured at the sheet, fingers not-quite-touching the rough sketch there, following the curve of the marks that swept across his back and waist. "It really looks like this?" he said wonderingly.

"More or less. I'm not the best at sketching, and it's more intricate than I can really show well with charcoal on such a small sheet of paper. But given those limitations, yes, that's basically what it looks like."

Oswyn nodded, and then rolled over on his back, turning his head to smile faintly at Varel. "Thank you. It... means a lot to me, to know it's not as terrible as I feared," he said, then resumed staring at the drawing.

Varel nodded, then excused himself to go stir the pottage and make some tea for them – real tea this time. When he brought it in, the sheet of parchment was nowhere in sight, and Oswyn was staring at the ceiling again, a thoughtful expression on his face. They shared the tea, and then Varel went back to work with his braiding. Oswyn watched him at work, a fascinated expression on his face. "You make it look so simple," he said after a while. "Like that woman who was crocheting."

"It actually is pretty simple," Varel said, glancing up from his work, then smiled. "Would you like to learn?"

"Yes," Oswyn said, with surprising eagerness.

He must be bored from lying around with little to do, Varel decided as he moved his chair closer, and lifted the basket of supplies from the floor to the edge of the bed. He picked out an uncovered hilt, and a handful of strips of leather, and after several false starts Oswyn managed to get the braiding properly underway. He was slow, of course – Varel finished two hilts and started on a third before Oswyn finally finished the one he was working on.

"How's that?" Oswyn asked, sounding pleased with himself.

Varel grinned. "Not bad. For a first attempt, anyway. But you've braided it too unevenly – see how there's gaps between some of the strips? And you've managed to twist this one upside down at some point – its got the rough side of the leather showing."

"Oh. What should I do?"

"Unbraid it and try again. And then again. You'll probably do it a half-dozen or more times before you get the proper good tight braid."

Oswyn grunted, and quickly stripped it out. He'd clearly taken Varel's words as a challenge; and overdid it, the next braid being too tightly done, so that the strips were buckling edgewise from being too closely packed together. Varel judged his fifth one as being good enough to keep, and then spent several minutes showing Oswyn how to finish off the ends of it. And then handed him another hilt and a second handful of leather strips. "See if you can do it again," he said, grinning at the look Oswyn gave him.

By the time their supper was ready, Oswyn had managed to make four that were good enough to keep, and had done the finishing off on the last one himself, an accomplishment that had him grinning happily. He was also feeling enough better to hobble out to the main room with Varel's help, and sit at the table to eat, though it was obvious his knee was still too painful to walk on easily.

After the meal there was the dishes to do – Varel washed and put away, while Oswyn remained in his chair and dried. Then Oswyn was returned to bed, and they sat there and just talked until late that evening, about the book on tactics they'd both read, before finally settling down to sleep.

It had been a surprisingly enjoyable day, Varel found himself thinking, once they'd gotten past the poor start to it anyway. And he was glad that he'd seemingly been able to relieve Oswyn's mind at least a little about one of his fears. Feeling as if he'd been terribly disfigured on top of being crippled must be very difficult for the young man to deal with, no matter what self-deprecating things he said about having been 'not exactly handsome' before his time in the dungeon.


	17. Chapter 17

_Hands holding him down, fingers clenched tight enough on already-tender flesh to bruise. Straps and buckles being fastened, holding him down in turn so that even when the hands released him, he could not move. And pain, the pain of injured joints pressed against an unwielding surface, the pain of recent scar tissue being stretched further than it easily could, of partially-healed injuries reopening. And then more pain, in his back, the pain of numerous little cuts being made; bearable at first but quickly worsening until his back felt like it was on fire, his senses overwhelmed by the horrific sensation of cut upon cut upon cut, and he could only sob in pain and imagine what a ruin was being made of it..._

Oswyn started awake, heart pounding, for a long moment unable to even breath in his panic. Then he managed a deep gasping inhale, hands knotting in the sheet draped over him as he fought not to cry out. He was not in the dungeon; he was _safe_ , safe in Varel's rooms in the Denerim alienage. It was early morning, judging by the dim light filtering in the small window near his head. Varel wasn't there, having somehow slipped out of the bed without wakening Oswyn, even though he'd have had to step over him to do so. His hands slowly unclenched as the nightmare-induced panic faded.

He sat up, and then fumbled around under the pillow, drawing out a folded sheet of parchment; the sketch of his back Varel had made the day before. He sat there for a few minutes, just studying it. The drawing was crude, able to show him only a rough approximation of what was cut into the skin of his back, and yet... it made him feel much relieved, to _know_ what was there. That it was not some disfiguring horror of ugly scar tissue. He still hated it, hated that he had been permanently marked by Howe, seen by the man as _property_ , to do whatever with that his sick mind wished to. _Hated_ that he would bear those marks in his flesh until the end of his days.

Apart from their crippling effects, much of what scars he bore were no worse than any fighting man might acquire, over the course of a lifetime, he tried to remind himself. Only these scars had been inflicted in a few short months, not over years and decades, and they were too obviously purposefully made to cripple and weaken, not the result of accidents in training or injury in battle. But his back... he shuddered, remembering again the nightmare of being bound face-down while Howe cut marks into his back.

The man had worked in silence, apart from the one time that he'd gloated about having Anora locked away upstairs. Rendon had _bragged_ about how he looked forward to doing _this_ to her some day as well, once she'd given him an heir and a spare and could be retired from the public eye. It was one of the few times Oswyn had spoken back to the man, his anger overcoming his fear, resulting in a beating and him being sent off to be racked by Howe's torturers again. He'd still been on the rack when Katy Cousland came through some unknown number of hours later; it may even have been days – he'd passed out more than once and had no real way of keeping track of time there in the unvarying lantern-lit dimness of the dungeon anyway. After a long time, anyway.

He forced his thoughts back to the present, and studied the piece of parchment again. It wasn't as bad as he'd feared. If it had been something he'd seen on someone else's skin, and he'd thought it was something they'd _chosen_ to have done, like the tattoos the elves often had – and even some humans, for that matter – he might even have admired it. But it was on _his_ skin, and by no choice of his own, and he could only hate it. He heard footsteps approaching the bedroom door, and quickly refolded and put away the parchment, feeling self-conscious about being found looking at it.

Varel came into the room a moment later, a bundle of fabric tucked under one arm. "Ahh, good – you're already up. I've got your clothes back from being cleaned," he said cheerfully, taking the bundle out from under his arm and folding back the blanket wrapped around the exterior to show Oswyn the stack of neatly folded clothing inside. He put it down on the bed. "How are you feeling today?"

"Rather better," Oswyn told him. "The swelling seems almost gone already."

"Good," Varel said. "There's some clean water, if you'd like to bathe while I make breakfast for us."

"Thank you, I suppose that would be a good idea before putting on clean clothes," Oswyn agreed, smiling thankfully at the elf.

Varel nodded, and left the room, coming back within a couple of minutes with a small basin half-full of water, a clean cloth, and a bar of hard soap. Oswyn thanked him, and once he'd left again took off the nightshirt he was wearing and began the slow process of cleaning as much of himself as he could reach. He half-wished he was back home at either the castle or the townhouse, with access to a real bath. A sponge bath was enough to make him feel cleaner, but there wasn't much he could do for his hair, which was feeling oily and lank, except swipe at it repeatedly with a soapy cloth and card his fingers through it; enough to dampen it but not really to clean it as thoroughly as he'd have liked. Still, by the time he'd finished, and had dressed in his freshly laundered clothing, he felt almost back to normal. Or at least back to what passed for 'normal' these days.

He was feeling enough better to make it out to the main room entirely under his own power too, where Varel was just putting breakfast on the table; he'd cooked up a large pile of small sausages, and was serving them with biscuits that had been split and then fried in the drippings. A good filling breakfast.

"I thought you said you couldn't cook?" Oswyn asked as he lowered himself into one chair.

Varel grinned. "That's not real cooking – that's just throwing stuff in a pan to warm up, and hoping I don't scorch it."

Oswyn laughed, and assembled a biscuit and several sausages into a small sandwich, taking a large bite and then making appreciative noises as he chewed. "Very nicely warmed," he said, once his mouth was free again. "So. If this isn't real cooking, what would be?"

"Hrmm... baking the biscuits and making the sausage myself instead of buying them at the market. Doing anything from scratch, really."

"You made pottage last night," Oswyn pointed out as he assembled another biscuit sandwich.

"Who doesn't know how to make that? Or soup, or some gruel or porridge...put some water in a pot, add grain, or meat and vegetables, or all of the above, and ignore it for a while. And hope it doesn't scorch."

Oswyn grinned. "Not scorching stuff you're cooking seems to be a recurring theme for you."

"It was my most common problem when I first started looking after my own meals," Varel replied, grinning just as widely. "And I hate trying to scrub clean pots and pans with burnt-on food."

"You can still do more in a kitchen than I can, by the sound of it. I can do a little campfire cookery, like that rabbit we had up on the mountain, but that's about the limit of my cooking skills."

"And peeling vegetables," Varel reminded him.

"Yes, and peeling vegetables."

A brief silence fell, as they finished off the last of their breakfast. "So what are your plans for today?" Oswyn asked after a while. "More piecework?"

"Maybe later. I bumped into Alarith while I was out this morning, and he asked me to go to the chantry and arrange for a priest to come perform the weddings next week. I pretty much had to say yes, since I'm the only one getting married who isn't currently employed, and can easily take the time to do so."

"I haven't seen the new chantry yet," Oswyn said, feeling his interest piqued. "I don't suppose I can go with you?"

"Are you sure you can walk that far?" Varel asked, frowning in concern.

"Pretty sure, yes. As long as we take it slow. Walking on the level won't be too bad... it's getting down so many flights of stairs to start with that's going to be the painful part," Oswyn explained.

Varel smiled. "I'm in no hurry to reach the chantry... we can take our time."

And so they did. The stairs were, as predicted, the worst part, every step down requiring Oswyn to bend his knees further than they could comfortably flex any longer, and ending in a painful jolt. Even worse than walking down the mountain had been, since its slope had been nowhere near as steep as the stairs here were, at least along the path they'd followed. They stopped twice on the way down for Oswyn to just lean against a wall for a while and catch his breath, waiting for the worst of the pain to subside before continuing.

It wasn't so bad once they reached level ground, or at least ground as level as the frost-heaved mud-slimed roadways of the alienage could be called. Oswyn eyed the uneven cobbles worriedly, remembering the feel of his cane skidding out from under his hand, and the painful impact with the ground that followed.

Varel divined his worry right away. "You can lean on me if you need to," he offered quietly.

Oswyn shot him a grateful look. "I think I'd better," he admitted. "At least until we're on safer footing." They settled on him resting his left hand on Varel's shoulder, his right holding his cane. They moved slowly, Varel giving Oswyn plenty of time to study the roadway and pick his footing across the ground. It took them almost fifteen minutes to reach the bridge to the market. They paused again there, sitting on the railing side-by-side while Oswyn relaxed after the tense walk that far.

It was early enough in the day still that most traffic was headed out of the alienage; elves heading off to their jobs, as servants and shop assistants, cleaners and common labourers, and a very few skilled workmen or guardsmen. There was also a smaller stream of people headed back to the alienage after making purchases in the market, or returning from working overnight. A number of people called out greetings or nodded to Varel, a few of them giving Oswyn side-long looks as they passed.

"The centre span looks like newer stone," Oswyn said after a while, studying the nearby stonework.

"It is," Varel told him. "The archdemon knocked out part of the bridge during the war, it's said; the Warden was crossing it at the time."

"Maker's breath," Oswyn said, appalled. "I wouldn't have wanted to be on the bridge when that happened. I'm surprised the whole thing didn't go into the river."

"It's pretty well-built; it's one of the oldest bridges in Denerim, supposedly, possibly in all of Ferelden. No one is sure just how old – certainly old enough that it might have been the work of the Tevinter magisters, like Fort Drakon, or it may even predate them and be the work of Avvar and dwarves, like Kinloch Hold is."

Oswyn gave him a curious look. "You know a lot about it."

"For an elf?" Varel asked, raising an eyebrow.

Oswyn snorted and gave him a look. "For anyone."

Varel grinned. "True. I'm lucky enough to be able to read; my mother knew how and she taught me. But there's very few books available to read unless you're wealthy enough to afford to buy them, so I read whatever odds and ends I could get my hands on. Which sometimes meant unusual things, like a scholarly dissertation on the ancient architecture of Denerim."

"What's the oddest thing you're read, then?" Oswyn asked, fascinated.

Varel grinned and blushed, then leaned over and spoke quietly near Oswyn's ear. "The Romantic Adventures of an Antivan Nobleman. It was, errr... illustrated. With etchings."

Oswyn laughed. "I've heard of that one. My father said he found it very educational when he saw a copy once in his youth."

Varel's grin widened. "Definitely educational. Certainly expanded _my_ knowledge of the possible, anyway."

Oswyn was feeling up to walking further by then, so they continued on their way. He was tempted to linger for a while in the new marketplace, but with as long a walk as they had ahead of them to the new chantry, decided against it. Instead he just looked interestedly around as they passed through it before heading west to the new quarter of the city, thinking how much he'd like to come back here another time and buy some things. Years, since the last time he'd spent money on anything frivolous, the money he'd spent on rooms, food and drink at the inn on the way to the city being the first purchase of _anything_ he'd made since the night of drinking that had ended with him in Howe's dungeon. Yes... he would definitely have to come back another time, when he could spend time just browsing at his leisure. He hoped the Wonders of Thedas was still around; he'd always liked going in there to see what they had for sale, even if he almost never bought.

The chantry, when they reached it, was impressively large; easily twice the size of the old one. It wasn't even finished yet; only the front third of the building was complete enough for use, the back two-thirds still under construction, which would make it an even larger structure eventually. It would take years yet to finish the shell of the building, decades before all the interior finishing work was done. Compared to the old chantry, it would be huge; compared to some of the chantries in richer countries in the Free Marches, or in Orlais off to the west, it would be a comparatively minor structure, likely notable only for being the main chantry in Ferelden, and the seat of the Grand Cleric of Ferelden.

They spent a little time just touring the usable part of the chantry, watching some of the finishing work being done. Marble floor tiles being laid, the roughed-in base of a supporting column being carved into a deeply-cut pattern of leaves and vines, a section of wall between two pilasters being plastered in preparation for a mural to be painted; it would be a scene from the life of Andraste, they were told by a passerby. It would be a beautiful space, someday, when it was finished, an appropriate venue for worshipping the Maker, and celebrating Andraste and her life.

Oswyn's joints were aching from the long walk and all the standing; after a little wandering around he and Varel went and found a seat in the pews near the back of the chantry, sitting and resting for a while. Oswyn studied the front of the church, where a temporary wall of rough-hewn boards separated the usable part of the chantry from the work-site beyond. The sounds of heavy labour drifted in, an odd counterpoint to the tranquilly smiling, peaceful-looking statue of Andraste erected at the front. He recognized it as being the one from the old chantry; it looked tiny in this new, much larger space. Doubtless it would only be used until the back part of the building was finished enough to erect a more sizable statue, and then would be retired to a side-chapel, or sent off for use in a country chantry somewhere.

He wondered what the new statue would be like; Kirkwall had a huge one of cast bronze coated in gold leaf, he'd heard, while the main Orlais chantry had an enormous bust made of three colours of marble, set with precious metals and gems. There was supposed to be an entire mountainside in the Anderfels carved in Andrastes' image, and the main chantry there had a huge statue carved of wood that had taken a master craftsman almost his entire life to make. They were both supposed to be magnificent, though few were the travellers who made the pilgrimage to see them; to reach the Anderfels one had to pass through an area of countryside where Orlais and Nevarra had been bickering for generations over just which of the two countries it belonged to. Too close to the Tevinter Empire, too – pilgrims had been known to vanish, most likely disappearing into the anonymity of the the Tevinter slave markets.

"Ah, there's a priest at last," Varel suddenly said quietly, and rose to his feet, hurrying over to intercept the woman. He bowed to her. "I beg your pardon, but can you tell me whom I should talk to about arranging a priest to perform a marriage ceremony?" he asked her politely.

She looked down her nose at him, then to Oswyn's surprise, looked at him and spoke, ignoring Varel entirely. "Ser, if you'd like to follow me, I can take you to Brother Jerome, who takes care of booking weddings."

Oswyn stared at her a moment, then realized – she assumed he was Varel's master, and that the elf had approached her on his behalf. "It's not I that am looking to arrange a wedding," he told her calmly. "Varel, there, is one of the perspective grooms," he said, and nodded his head toward him. "Though I'm sure he'd be glad to be taken to Brother Jerome."

A sour expression crossed the woman's face, and she turned to look at Varel again. "An alienage wedding?" she asked sharply, and sniffed dismissively when he nodded. "It's not Brother Jerome you need then. I'm not sure who's handling _elves_ any more since Mother Boann left last month," she added, then turned and walked off. "Wait there," she called back over her shoulder.

Varel sighed and resumed his seat beside Oswyn.

"Are all priests like that?" Oswyn asked him quietly. "Rude to elves?"

"Many of them, yes," Varel said resignedly. "The Chantry is a human institution, after all, and most priests remember all too clearly that elves were once the subject of an Exalted March."

Oswyn frowned. "But... elves worship the Maker too... they _marched_ at Andraste's side!"

"Not all of them. The Dalish still follow the old ways, as much as they can. There is no elf with any higher rank than being affirmed in the Chantry, a lay servant, and very few even of those; the chantry discourages them, and they aren't allowed to ever take vows, even after a lifetime of service."

Oswyn's frown deepened. He didn't think that fair; if elves were encouraged, even required, to worship Andraste, then didn't it follow that there should be elven priests?

Another religious came out into the chantry; not the female priest from before, but a much younger woman wearing the simpler robes of a initiate. She looked around, then came over to them, and smiled as she dipped a shallow bow to Varel. "You're here looking for a priest to perform an alienage wedding?" she asked him.

"Yes," Varel confirmed. "Next week. The other woman mentioned something about Mother Boann having left?"

"Yes, she's the Revered Mother in Highever now; unfortunately it's left us without any priest who... well, who is willing to minister to the alienage," she said, and frowned slightly. "If you can give me more information about when someone is needed, I can go around and try to locate a priest willing to take on the job. I'm afraid it may take some time," she added, looking genuinely remorseful about that.

Varel gave her all the information he could – the day the ship was likely to arrive, the number of elves waiting to be married, and so forth – and then she disappeared off out of the nave again.

They took another turn around the interior of the building after a while, admiring some of the more finished areas of it this time, then returned to the pew. Time passed slowly; it was well past noon before the initiate returned, looking tired. "I'm sorry it took so long," she told Varel. "I finally found someone willing to take it on. When the ship arrives send word to Mother Perpetua; she'll come at mid-morning the next day to perform the ceremony."

Varel smiled warmly at the initiate and thanked her profusely. She smiled back, dipped him another shallow bow, and left.

"I'm glad _that's_ over with," Varel said, sounding relieved. "Well, should we get on back?"

"Certainly," Oswyn agreed, and climbed laboriously back to his feet. He was stiffening up again after the long wait, and found himself not at all looking forward to the walk back to the alienage.

They started toward the entrance, only to find their way suddenly blocked by a group of people entering; guards, and a woman. The woman's face registered to Oswyn even before the colourful mabari-crested surcoats the guards were wearing sunk in. "Anora!" he gasped aloud, coming to a sudden stop just feet from her, the suspicious guards quickly moving to block the way between him and her.

Her eyes met his, she look puzzled for a moment, and then the cool expression on her face transformed to one of sudden recognition. "Ser Oswyn!" she exclaimed, and tapped her guards on the arms to make them move apart again.

"Queen Anora," Oswyn said, more formally than his initial surprised outburst, suddenly feeling horribly self-conscious about his current casual clothing, his unwashed hair, Maker, his _cane_... He made as deep an obeisance as he could, and held it, waiting for her permission to rise.


	18. Chapter 18

"Ser Oswyn," Anora said again as she looked over Oswyn closely, obviously taking in his pained stance and the cane he was leaning heavily on. "Please, rise," she said quietly, taking a half-step closer to him, just the tiniest of frowns wrinkling her brow.

The deep bow had been a mistake, he'd already realized, and was thankful when Varel, kneeling beside him in an even deeper obeisance than his own, gave him an unobtrusive hand up.

"I am pleasantly surprised to see you," Anora said, smiling warmly at him. "It has been far too long since I last saw you at court; I had heard of your injuries, of course," she added, her expression darkening for a moment. "But you are well enough to travel now? I am surprised you have not presented yourself at court yet."

Oswyn flushed. "My apologies for neglecting my duty to appear before you," he said. "This is my first trip to Denerim since..." he paused for a moment, not sure just how to refer to his incarceration in Howe's dungeon.

"Since the Blight Year," Anora said softly.

"Yes. Since then. I planned to attend court within a day or two of my arrival, and then I'm afraid I had a small accident – I misjudged my footing on slick cobblestones, and fell badly – and this is the first day I've been able to rise and go about again. Please forgive my tardiness in presenting myself before you, my Queen," he said, and bowed again, rather more shallowly this time, so as not to require help in rising.

"You are forgiven," Anora said, and reached out to touch his arm lightly. "Though I insist that you make amends by attending court tomorrow afternoon, and dining with me afterwards."

"Of course. I would be honoured to do so," he said.

She smiled warmly at him. "Good. I wish I could speak with you more right now, but I fear I have a prior obligation – I'm calling on the Grand Cleric, and will be overdue for my meeting with her if I delay here much longer," she said, then frowned at his cane again. "I will be here some time; please, make use of my carriage if you need conveyance," she said, and turned to one of her guards. "See the driver knows, please," she said to him.

The guard nodded and gave her a quick bow, his arms crossed over his chest in salute, while Oswyn flushed and bowed to Anora a third time. "Thank you," he said. "I believe I will take advantage of your kind offer; I fear I've misjudged my ability to walk today."

She smiled and nodded, and they exchanged a brief farewell, then she hurried off, all the guards except for the one she's designated to speak to her driver attending her. Varel rose to his feet at last, looking mildly stunned by his sudden and unexpected proximity to the Queen of Ferelden. The guard followed the two of them outside the chantry, saying a few words to the coachman and then opening the door for Oswyn before hurrying back indoors, presumably to return to guarding the Queen.

"Where would you like to be taken, ser?" the coachman asked, craning around to look through the hatchway at Oswyn as Varel settled gingerly down to sit beside him, clearly intimidated to be riding in one of the royal carriages, even if it was a very plain one, not even marked with the royal arms.

Oswyn bit his lower lip for a moment. With him ordered to attend court tomorrow, he'd need to return to the townhouse. He sighed. "Can you make two stops? I need to buy a few things at the Denerim Market before I return to the Aylridge townhouse."

"Of course, ser – as long as I'm back here when Queen Anora needs me, I can make as many stops as you'd like, and that shouldn't be until at least two hours from now."

"Thank you," Oswyn said, smiling at the man. He settled back in his seat as the hatch slid shut and the coach lurched into motion. The ride smoothed out quickly once they were underway, the coach being well-sprung enough to dampen out the worst of the jolting from the rough cobblestone streets. The trip from the chantry to the market took only about a quarter as long as it had taken them to walk the distance. The driver pulled up in a side-street just before the market gate, where he could wait without blocking traffic, and Varel and Oswyn disembarked and walked the rest of the way on foot.

Varel gave Oswyn an odd look as they went through the open gateway into the market.

"What?" Oswyn asked him, one eyebrow lifting enquiringly.

"I don't think it ever really sunk in for me before, just what it meant – you being a noble, I mean. Even after staying at your father's castle. I knew you were related to a lot of the other nobles, and probably knew a lot of them personally, but... Maker! The Queen of Ferelden!" Varel said, more than a little awe in his voice.

Oswyn grinned, amused by Varel's reaction. "Don't let the titles fool you – we're all still merely human. We eat, sleep, sweat, bleed, burp and fart just like anyone else does, even if some of us like to act as if we're above any such _common_ things."

That brought a grin to Varel's face. "Having already witnessed you do pretty much all of those, I suppose I can believe you. Still... it's very strange to think how close I was to the Queen herself! And then to ride in her carriage..." he trailed off, and shook his head, a wide grin on his face. "Quite a different experience that I'd ever have imagined having."

Oswyn smiled. "I have to admit it was rather surprising for me as well. I've known Anora since her father first brought her to Denerim after her mother's death, but I was never a particularly close friend of hers; she was one of the oldest in our circle of friends, and for a long time I was one of the youngest; I likely wouldn't even have been included among Cailan's circle of friends except I got my growth early, and Dragon's Peak is close enough to Denerim that King Maric often invited us to attend festivities at court."

He caught Varel giving him that odd look again, and laughed. "I suppose it sounds strange to someone who wasn't a noble, when I speak so casually of our royalty, but for most of my life Cailan was mainly just a friend to rough-house or spar or go hunting with, not... not a prince, or the King, as he later became," he explained, and fell silent for a moment, feeling a pang of sorrow. "One of the few people I could honestly call a friend. One of the many I lost in the Blight Year."

Varel nodded slowly. "It's strange to think of you being friends with the King, and knowing Anora, and I suppose Loghain too, and so many other people that stand so large in the history of our country... but that they're all just merely human when you get right down to it... and that you lost a person you knew and cared for when we lost our King... that I can understand," he said, and reached out to touch Oswyn's arm. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Oswyn looked down and away for a moment, moved by Varel's simple words. "Thank you," he said, voice a little rough.

Varel changed the subject then. "What did you need to buy? I'm familiar with most of the shops here now..."

"Oh. A better cane, something suitable to use at court," he said, momentarily lifting the one he was using; a length of plain wood, little more than a small sapling that had been cut down, cut to size, and had its bark removed, the handle at the top nothing fancier than a smoothed-off natural branching of the original tree. It was the sort of cane even the poorest of farmers might have, easily made out of freely available materials.

"That's all?" Varel asked, sounding a little surprised.

Oswyn smiled. "No. I should pick up some other odds and ends as well... toiletries and so on. There used to be a stall run by an Orlesian woman that had some very nice things..."

"I remember the one you mean. She's gone now, but there's an Antivan merchant with a nice selection of items. His shop is right over there," Varel said, nodding his head to a nearby row of storefronts.

The two of them spent almost an hour in shopping together, Varel guiding Oswyn to the sorts of shops he needed. Oswyn picked out some scented soaps and perfumes and so forth both for himself and as gifts for people back home, and after dithering for a while over the available choices, picked out two new canes; a fairly plain one of polished dark wood with a knobbed end instead of a hooked handle for everyday use, and a much fancier one of lighter wood inlaid with marquetry leaves, with a bone handle carved in the shape of a halla's head, the swept-back horns forming the actual grip.

Varel helped him carry his purchases back to the carriage. Oswyn leaned back out the window after Varel had closed the door. "Send word to me when you're getting married; I'd like to attend, if that's all right with you," he said.

Varel grinned at him. "I'd be honoured. I'll send word once I know the day."

Oswyn nodded, and raised a hand in farewell before settling back in his seat, and thumping once on the roof to let the driver know it was all right to proceed.

It was a relatively short ride up to the area of nobles' townhouses near the castle. The driver got down to help Oswyn disembark, and by the time he'd stepped down out of the carriage a pair of his guards and one of the servants had come out of the house, all three of them looking relieved to seem him back home. His purchases were quickly unloaded, and he tipped the man handsomely before the driver set off back to the chantry.

He was soon in the ground-floor rooms he'd picked out for himself on his arrival in the city, ensconced in the hot bath he'd been wishing for that morning, doing his best to give his hair a proper wash. He found himself thinking that he really should have asked Peter, the manservant he'd brought along, for help bathing. Yet he still found the thought of letting anyone see his scars repellent; he probably should have made a point of bringing along one of the servants who'd cared for him during his recovery, someone who'd already seen them. But most of those had been older servants, mostly female – nursemaids, really – not anyone suited for use as a manservant. He sighed, and found himself wishing he was still back in the alienage, not facing the ordeal of attending court the next day as he was. And then laughed, thinking of how during his morning sponge-bath it was right here that he'd been wishing he was; more proof, if any was needed, that one should always be careful of what one wished for.


	19. Chapter 19

Getting ready to attend court was a lengthy process. It began with a shave and a bath just before midday – a much briefer one than the day before, since he was already fairly clean. He had a small lunch in the privacy of his rooms, wrapped in a voluminous robe while his hair dried out sufficiently that he could dress without worrying about water staining his clothing. He dressed himself in stockings, smalls, close-fitting cream linen leggings, and a matching long-sleeved cream silk shirt before summoning in Peter to help him with the rest of his court outfit.

There were baggy pants that went on over the leggings, the pants made of wide strips of navy brocaded fabric trimmed with gold cord, the strips attached to their neighbours at carefully staggered points so as to leave gaps between them that let the cream fabric underneath show through. They joined together at a wide cuff just below his knee, and were tucked into knee-high boots of blue-dyed leather, with polished brass buckles on the multitude of decorative straps wrapped around them. A jacket of matching fabric went on over top of that, the sleeves given a similar slashed treatment as the pants. Some panels of the body of it were plain fabric of a very dark blue, some the same lighter navy brocade as the pants, and the cuffs and collar were all heavily embroidered in gold thread, in a pattern that combined twisting vines with the stars from the bannorn's crest. His cane of light-coloured wood and bone would look very well with the outfit, he thought, and found himself smiling over such a minor vanity.

Peter combed out his hair, using a little lightly scented oil on the comb so the hair would remain smooth and neat, then trimmed and buffed his nails. Oswyn looked every inch the noble he was by the time Peter was finished. He nodded his thanks to the man, then set off for the castle, a pair of his guards attending him for the short walk there.

The walk to the castle took him past the ruins of what had been the Arl of Denerim's estate, destroyed during the battle of Denerim in the Blight Year. Little of it remained save a pile of broken, smoke-stained rubble overgrown with weeds, all that was salvageable having been long-since hauled off, including much of the stone to be used in repairing or making new buildings elsewhere. Still, just walking by the place was enough to make Oswyn feel tense, bringing back too many memories of his time in the dungeons there, and his escape from it.

He wasn't able to relax again until he reached the castle grounds. There it was the good memories that overwhelmed him; memories of attending court events with his father, of time spent with Cailan and the other young nobles that were all part of Cailan's group of friends. Celebrations of the young prince's name-days, as well as Satinalia, Firstday, Wintersend, Summerday, Funalis... and balls, as they grew older, sometimes with foreign dignitaries in attendance. He smiled briefly, remembering the second-last ball before King Maric's fatal sea voyage, where all the young men had jostled to dance with the very pretty daughter of the Teryn of Ostwick; not his heir, who was already married, but his younger daughter. She'd later married a merchant from Ansburg, if he remembered correctly. Katy had been quietly furious at being ignored for so much of the ball; Anora had merely shrugged it off and danced with all the older men and a few of the youngest boys. He supposed it was a good thing Habren had still been too young for balls then; she'd have been furious, and not in the least quiet about it.

He reached the antichamber to the throne room, where his guards went aside to sit down on the benches provided for them. A number of other personnel guardsmen were already there, in assorted livery – he recognized several crests and colours as belonging to minor bannorns to the northwest, and supposed the Bannorn, or at least some faction among them, must be upset about something again. He was glad that Dragon's Peak was not involved in that; not being part of the breadbasket farmlands, their political grouping traditionally aligned them with Denerim and the royals, and their geographical location gave them more in common with the scattered bannorns and arlings in the forested lands to the south and southwest of Denerim, not the north.

He paused a moment to smooth his hair and tug down on the hem of his jacket, then nodded to the royal guardsmen at the doors to signal that he was ready to enter. One moved smartly to open one leaf of the massive double doors that gave entry to the throne room, and Oswyn made his way through and into the large vaulted chamber.

It was a smaller space than the Great Hall that was traditionally used for larger gathering, balls, and meetings of the Landsmeet, and not as opulent, designed as it had been to be quietly impressive in the quality of the materials and workmanship in it. In comparison the Great Hall, redecorated aduring the reign of the usurper Meghren, was gaudily overdone. It had been his preferred throne room, and been largely with many of the elements of the more ornate Orlesian style so the Landsmeet could not fail to be reminded of their history whenever they met in it.

At this time of day the tall windows between the supporting columns of the outer wall flooded the room with sunlight, reflecting off the walls of subtly carved pale grey stone, and highlighting the lovely parquet wood floor with its three-foot-wide border of intricate marquetry, a pattern of leafy roundels each of which contained a scene from the history of the kingdom. He could remember spending much of a morning in here once with Cailan, both of them on their hands and knees as they crawled around looking at the roundels and tried to guess what historical event each referred to. Some were easy to figure out – Dane pinning a werewolf to the ground with his spear was an obvious one – and some much less so. They never had found out what was referred to by the tall tower with a tiny female silhouette visible in a barred window at the very top, her posture one of rage, with two men at the foot of the tower, one lying on the ground – dead or asleep, they hadn't any idea – and the other looked up toward the woman, a spear lifted in one hand to point at her.

He stopped partway down the hall, leaning on his cane and looking around. There was only a comparative handful of people in the room today, most standing in small scattered groupings, waiting for their turn to speak with the Queen. He recognized only a few of the faces there; a rather choleric-looking man that he knew was one of the more obstreperous banns among those in the Bannorn, surrounded by a handful of other men; an older man standing by himself examining one of the tapestries hung on the wall whom he recognized as Arl Wulff of West Hills. And Anora herself, of course.

Anora was seated not on the large raised throne at the far end of the room, but in a comfortable chair positioned at a small desk near the windows, several plainer chairs and a long bench set handy to it so that whomever she was speaking with could also be seated; she preferred an informal court much of the time, he'd heard, and it appeared to be true. She had her head bent together with a young red-haired woman he didn't recognize, the two of them speaking in hushed voices as they passed sheets of paper back and forth, apparently discussing their contents.

A few people had noted his entrance and were looking at him with greater or lesser degrees of interest; he noticed their glances, the way heads moved close together as people asked each other who he was, doubtless also discussing what was known about him in those cases where they recognized him. The faint rise in background noise made Arl Wulff look around; he smiled and walked over to Oswyn.

"Bann Sighard's son, Oswyn, isn't it?" he asked affably.

"Yes, ser," Oswyn said, dipping a polite bow to him.

"I almost didn't recognize you – but then I haven't seen you since the year I brought my boys to Cailan's Winterfest ball," he said, and stopped a moment, a brief look of grief crossing his face. His sons had both died in the Blight Year, falling while helping to defend the retreat of Arl Wulff's people from the invading darkspawn.

"I heard of your loss, during my recovery," Oswyn said quietly. "I'm sorry; they were good men."

Wulff nodded. "Thank you. It's actually because of them that I'm here today – or rather, the loss of them," he said. Oswyn gave him a questioning look, unsure what he meant.

"I'm thinking of remarrying," Wulff explained further, and grimaced, making it clear what he thought of the prospect. "I would be satisfied with my Arling passing to my closest cousin; she is a good woman, well-versed in the management of her own bannorn, and her heir seems to have a reasonably level head as well. But with so many killed in the south during both the occupation and the Blight, she is also the only still-living heir for a neighbouring arling, having had a grandparent each from both West Hills and Steep Rock. She cannot inherit both places, so I must get me another heir, or see my arling pass to a much more distant cousin of mine, and _he_ is little better than a lack-witted fool. I wouldn't trust _him_ to watch over a compost heap.," he said, with a dismissive snort.

"And besides, Queen Anora has made it clear that she will not countenance calls for her to bear an heir of her own from nobles who have none themselves," he added, smiling again with obvious good-humour. "Considering my faction has been pressing her to remarry since she was confirmed as Queen, it is politic for me to set my own house in order, as she herself has pointed out to me."

Oswyn found himself grinning. He could easily imagine Anora putting her foot down with her nobles over the issue of the succession, and could equally well see that Arl Wulff thought well of her for it; he wasn't the sort of man to want a ruler who was easily swayed by their nobles, even if he might have preferred one who agreed more often with his own staunchly conservative faction. "So you're here to talk to Queen Anora about your decision to remarry?" Oswyn asked, assuming that the Arl would use the opportunity to pressure Anora at least a little about her own lack of an heir.

Arl Wulff's smile widened into a grin. "Even better; I've come to inform her of my choice. The daughter of one of my own smallholders, in fact. She's a distant cousin, though from the wrong side of the bedsheets, and marrying her will give her enough precedence to knock the idiot cousin out of the succession whether or not I manage to father a child on her. Most importantly, she's got a good head on her shoulders and I believe with proper training she'll be an able replacement for me. Not at all bad-looking, either, though she's no delicate hot-house flower like _some_ noblewomen," Wulff said, sniffing disdainfully. "But I'd rather a smart wife than a merely pretty one."

Oswyn had to hide another grin at that. Even immured at Dragon's Peak as he'd been, he'd heard the story of Arl Wulff's encounter at a ball the year before with Arl Bryland's daughter Habren, whom he'd been partnered with at table, where by all reports young Habren had managed to show off all her least-likable attributes. Arl Wulff had been good-mannered enough not to make a public scene, though word was the expression on his face when he finally parted company with the importunate young noblewoman had spoken volumes. Then there was the rumoured scene Habren had later been foolish enough to make in front of her servants about it; it seemed that Arl Wulff had been irked enough to let her know in no uncertain terms that he entertained no interest in her at all. That the details of her tantrum had leaked had also proven something Oswyn's father Bann Sighard had said more than once – that a person who mistreated their servants was a fool, and twice a fool if they expected discretion or loyalty out of them afterwards.

Before they could talk any further, a servant approached them to let Arl Wulff know that the Queen was ready to speak with him now. Oswyn and Gallagher exchanged bows, and the Arl went off to take a seat with Anora, the two smiling warmly at each other and soon chatting away like old friends. Which he wouldn't be surprised if they were, Oswyn found himself thinking as he walked over to one of the windows to enjoy the view of the castle gardens. Arl Wulff was too pragmatic to hold Anora's common blood against her, as the north-western conservatives did, and a good number of the values his coalition espoused were ones that Anora held to as well; unsurprising really, her father having been largely conservative in many of his beliefs, and her taking very much after him in her own politics.

He stood at the window for some time, leaning on his cane and considering Arl Wulff's words; West Hills and Steep Rock were far from being the only places that were short on heirs at the moment. Look at Highever, where all but Fergus and Katy had died, including Fergus' wife and son. Redcliffe, where Arl Eamon had lost his wife and son both, one to death and the other to the mage tower, leaving his younger brother, a bachelor, as his only heir.

Even Dragon's Peak – he was his father's only child, and had yet to father any heir of his own. If he'd died in Howe's dungeon – or if he simply fell ill tomorrow and died of it – there would be no more Aylridge family, only the most distant of cousins still being alive, and few of the closest even being Fereldan, since his father's grandmother – the last generation when there'd been a spare, and hence currently the most closely related branch of the family – had married somewhere up in the Free Marches during the occupation. Most of their family had died during the Occupation itself, killed during the Orlesian siege of their castle or executed after it finally fell to the invaders, only a handful surviving the tumultuous years of the rebellion. And their story repeated again and again across the face of Ferelden – noble families badly reduced in the early years of the occupation – those that hadn't been wiped out entirely by the Orlesians – their surviving younger or non-combatant members often sent abroad for their safety during the long years of the rebellion and not always returning, and then the Blight, decimating a heavy tithe of what remained.

He was lost in his thoughts enough to be mildly startled when a servant appeared at his elbow, telling him Queen Anora was ready to see him now. He looked around as he followed the servant over to her. Arl Wulff was gone, as was the group from the Bannorn. There was a new group standing over near the doors – merchants, he thought from their dress – as well as a dark-haired woman in armour pacing back and forth near the opposite wall, a page standing near to her holding a small document chest.

Queen Anora was standing by her chair, and smiled as he approached her. "Do not bow any lower than is comfortable for you," she told him quietly. "We are old enough friends to not need such formality between us outside of a formal court occasion, I would hope."

He flushed, pleased at being called her friend, and gave her as deep a bow as he could manage – deep enough to be uncomfortable, but not painful, and one he was capable of rising from without help. Anora resumed her seat, and gestured for him to sit down as well, in a comfortable padded chair set near to her own. She looked him over with an approving eye. "You look much better than you did yesterday," she said, then smiled and clarified as he blushed in embarrassment, remembering how unkempt he'd looked when they'd encountered in the chantry the day before. "Not just in your dress. Your colour is better and I can see that you're moving more easily. I assume you've recovered further from whatever injury you took in the fall you spoke of?"

"Thank you, yes, I have," he told her. "I overdid it on walking and standing yesterday, I'm afraid; I'm well-rested today."

"Good," she said, and smiled warmly at him. "Tell me, how are things in your father's bannorn?"

They spent a pleasant half hour in polite conversation, mostly on safely neutral topics – the state of things in his father's bannorn, his trip to the city, a recent short retreat to a favourite royal hunting lodge she'd taken. She'd always been good with a bow; he was not surprised when she told him of the fine stag she'd brought down while there.

She sighed and sat back eventually, smiling again. "And now I fear I must return to court business for a while. It will be an hour or so until I am finished here and am free to dine. Why don't you make free of the castle library or gardens until then."

"Of course," he said, and rose to his feet. "I believe I will go for a walk in the gardens."

She nodded, and he bowed to her again before retreating. The armoured woman was already being led over to her, page in tow, and as he walked away he heard Anora greet the woman, her voice just as warmly friendly as it had been when greeting him. "Ser Cauthrien – what report do you have for me today?"

* * *

The gardens were beautiful. Here and there he could see signs of the damage they'd suffered during the darkspawn invasion in the Blight Year, but mostly the grounds were as beautifully maintained as they'd always been, and full of good memories. Here was the tree they'd liked to climb, missing several of the lower branches now, and with deep gouges healing over in its back, but still standing and green. There was the flower bed where they'd dug in for buried treasure as children – he couldn't remember if that had been Anora's idea, or Cailan's, both having a positive talent back then for coming up with ideas that would get the group in trouble.

And there was Anora's rose bed, which all the boys had helped dig one warm summer night, a surprise name-day gift from Cailan so that she could plant cuttings from the roses in her mother's rose garden there. He smiled, remembering the crotchety old gardener who'd sat on a nearby ornamental boulder and supervised the work, young Cailan having actually gotten permission ahead of time for once. A good thing he had; they wouldn't have known how deeply the bed needed to be dug, or about adding in compost and dried peat to the soil. It had been hard work, leaving them all with blistered hands and sore backs the next day, but worth it to see the look on Anora's face when Cailan led her out to the garden the next morning, and showed her the rooted cuttings he'd arranged to have sent north, and the freshly-dug bed. "So you can have a little bit of Gwaren here with you all the time," he'd told her.

Around a hedge, and he came across the lily pond, where they'd once snuck out to swim on a particularly hot night after an evening of drinking. They'd sprawled out on the grass bank afterwards, himself and Cailan, Fergus and both the Howe boys, all of them good friends back then. Fergus was just back from his tour of the north and was looking forward to his marriage to Oriana; the first of the group of them to wed, though not the first to be engaged, Cailan and Anora having been promised to each other since childhood. Nathaniel was about to leave for the Free Marches himself – being sent off to be a squire to a noble near Ansburg that his mother's side of the family had some connection to. They'd lain there on the grass, and talked for what had seemed like hours and hours, until Katherine, Delilah and Anora, taking a walk though the darkened gardens to escape the heat indoors, came across them. Katy had been all for stripping off and going in for a swim as well, but Delilah had been too shy to do so, and Anora had merely laughed at the group of them scrambling into their clothes, as they were all dressed in nothing more than their smalls when the girls showed up. The memory put a grin on his face.

The hour passed with surprising speed. He was seated on a bench near a small fountain when Anora herself came in search of him. She smiled, and gestured for him to remain seated, joining him on the bench.

"You have such a smile on your face," she told him. "What are you thinking of?"

He nodded at the nearby fountain, and grinned. "The time young Cailan decided the eels for supper needed rescuing."

Anora laughed and grinned at Oswyn. "Oh, Maker, yes, I remember that! Two whole baskets of them he stole from the kitchens and dumped in the fountain before anyone noticed. It took him almost two hours to capture them all again, Maric standing over him the whole time."

"And then later at dinner, when the stewed eels were served..." Oswyn said, a grin spreading across his own face.

"Oh, my favourite!" they both exclaimed in gleeful chorus, and then laughed together at the memory.

"I don't think he'd ever really realized before then that food didn't just magically come from the kitchen," Anora said, an amused smile on her face. "Father was appalled at his ignorance, of course – so he saw to it that Cailan spent the rest of the summer being shipped off to assorted nobles to stay with them and see where his food really came from."

"I remember that, too," Oswyn agreed, nodding. "He came and stayed with us, and we took him to see a dairy farm, and our flocks of sheep and goats."

Anora nodded. "He also went off to stay with Arl Eamon at Redcliffe to see fishing being done, and vegetable farming, and I think Bann Teagan had him at Rainesfere as well – he made him work in the orchards or something like that, as I recall. And the Couslands had him on a visit as well, I remember him talking about helping gather shellfish on the tidal flats, and how many he ate at the feast afterwards."

They ended up talking for quite some time, reminiscing about their youth, and reminding each other of special events, or adventures they and their group of friends had had. It was early evening before the two of them finally wound down.

"We should go in an eat," Anora said, smiling warmly at him as she rose to her feet. He quickly rose as well, and politely offered her his arm. She smiled again, taking hold of his arm, and turning them to walk back toward the castle. "Thank you," she said. "It is rare that I can speak of or think of Cailan without it being a painful memory. You've reminded me of so many of the good times today; so much of the good that was in him, when he wasn't being... well, before the two of us grew up and grew apart," she said, and sighed, a pensive look crossing her face.

Oswyn stayed silent; he knew the close friendship the two had shared all their life had suffered after their marriage. It had been so sudden... but in the wake of Maric's disappearance, some factions among the nobles began campaigning to bypass Cailan and name Bryce Cousland as king in his place. It was an advancement Bryce had made very clear he had no interest in, throwing in his influence on the young presumptive king's side instead, but there'd still been a mad scramble to see that Cailan was accepted as a responsible, sober adult in order to secure his kingship. Seeing him married to Anora so that he was viewed by the Landsmeet as a responsible married man instead of the young self-indulgent rake that he'd been at the time, had been one of the keys to securing enough votes to keep him on his father's throne.

Unfortunately, between his grief and disbelief over his father's disappearance, and his anger at being forced to wed Anora before he was ready to, Cailan's selfish side had gained the upper hand. There had, Oswyn knew – because Cailan himself had told him about it – been a bitter confrontation between them, in which Cailan had accused Anora of marrying him solely for the power and prestige she'd gain as Queen of Ferelden. It was an accusation the conservatives in the Bannorn had never been hesitant to level against the woman they saw as the common-born daughter of a common-born social climber, never mind what role Loghain had played in freeing Ferelden from the Orlesians, or that he had been made _Teryn_ Loghain by King Maric himself as a reward for his actions. To certain nobles, Loghain Mac Tir would never be more than a jumped-up peasant. Perhaps if he'd married a noble their views of his daughter would at least have been different – but Loghain had married for a comfortable home life, and possibly for love, not for advantage, leaving Anora as the peasant daughter of a peasant father and mother in the eyes of some, no matter what title her father held or what education she'd been given as Cailan's future wife.

Anora must have been so hurt hearing such an accusation coming from the lips of the man she'd known and been close friends with since childhood, Oswyn thought. A man Oswyn had little doubt she'd loved at least as well as a brother, and been prepared to love as a wife. But Cailan had gone even further than that slap in the face, telling her that if she wished the power and prestige of being Queen, he'd leave the responsibility of it to her as well – and had, dumping the running of his kingdom on her shoulders while he spent his time in self-indulgence, in drink and hunts and partying, and in time spent with other women.

At least he'd been reasonably discrete about it; unfortunately that very discretion had led to the nobles eventually questioning the continued lack of royal heirs, and interpreting it as a sign of something wrong with Anora, totally ignorant of the fact that Cailan almost never slept in his own marriage bed. And then Cailan had died at Ostagar, the two never having reconciled. Small wonder Anora had found the painful memories the ones easiest for her to recall; she had close to five years worth of them, all more recent than those golden years of their youth.

It wasn't until they reached the royal apartments that Anora finally returned from her own reverie, smiling charmingly at Oswyn and inviting him to take a seat at the already-laid table. She tugged on a bell-pull to summon their supper, then joined him at the table.

"It feels like there are so few of us left, since the Blight Year. Cailan and Thomas dead at Ostagar, Delilah disappearing, until she turned up a year later in Amaranthine, married to a commoner – which she seems to feel means she should no longer acknowledge her old friends, as if the social standing of her husband would matter to _me_ ," she said, then sighed. "And poor Fergus... Katy and I worried for his sanity for a while, you know. And Katy herself... she's very changed, since she became a Grey Warden. She doesn't laugh or smile nearly as much as she used to, especially since... since the Archdemon was killed," Anora said, her face falling slightly, then looked up at Oswyn and smiled thinly. "She lost so many she cared for that year, you see."

Oswyn nodded. The servants arrived then with the first course of their meal, and they fell silent while they served. They had just started to eat their appetizers when another servant arrived, carrying a folded note on a small salver. Anora opened it, and read, a delighted smile crossing her face. "Speak of her and she appears – Katy and one of her wardens is downstairs," she told him happily, then turned to the servant. "Yes, tell them to come on up. And tell the kitchen we'll have two more for dinner, please."

The servant bowed and hurried off. Another servant came in right after he'd left, and quickly set two more places at the table with silverware and plates from a nearby sideboard. She's only just left before Katherine Cousland swept into the room, wearing dusty blue and grey armour, a wide smile on her face. She hurried across the room as Anora rose to her feet, the two women exchanging an affectionate hug.

But Oswyn was only peripherally aware of that; his eyes were glued in disbelief on the face of the man who'd entered the room a few steps behind her. That hooked nose, those pale grey eyes... It couldn't be. He was dead. Howe was _dead_. He shouldn't be _here_ , alive, in Denerim...

"Oswyn...?" he vaguely heard someone saying as he rose to his feet and stumbled backwards, heart hammering painfully in his chest even as those familiar cold grey eyes turned and looked right at him. "Oswyn!"

And then, mercifully, everything went dark.

* * *

_Cailan's trip to Rainesfere and working in the orchards there is a reference to deagh's story "[Hand on Experience](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7374998/1/Hands_on_Experience)" which refers to such a trip in her "Change of Plans" AU._

  


  
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Cleaned-Up Oswyn ](http://msbarrows.tumblr.com/post/27583287147)


	20. Chapter 20

Oswyn opened his eyes, and stared blankly at the bed canopy overhead for a long moment. "That was Nathaniel," he said aloud, feeling his skin heat with embarrassment as his mind's eye caught up to what he'd really seen – a younger face than Rendon's, the hair long and black instead of short and steel grey.

"Yes, that was Nate," a familiar voice said from nearby.

He turned his head. Katy was curled up in a chair placed beside the bed he was lying on. It should have looked hideously uncomfortable – she was still dressed in full armour, the road dust from it rubbing off on the pale yellow fabric of the upholstery – but in the way of cats, or of someone who was rarely out of their armour, she somehow made it looked perfectly comfortable.

She smiled warmly at him. "We're all sorry for giving you such a terrible shock," she told him. "Anora didn't know who my companion was – I meant it to be a surprise for her – and I didn't know you were here, or I'd have certainly left Nate outside until I was sure you were up to seeing him."

He flushed and looked away, feeling awkwardly vulnerable in front of her, with her likely knowing just why seeing Nathaniel's face would be so difficult for him. She'd seen him there, in the dungeon, _seen_ what Howe had done to him...

There was a scrape and rustle as she rose from the chair, and the bed dipped under her weight as she sat down on the edge of it, and took his hand in hers. "I worried about you, you know," she said quietly. "Having to just _leave_ you there, so terribly injured... we looked for you on our way back out, after killing Howe. But you were already gone. And then we were caught on our way out ourselves, and Alistair and I were dragged off to Fort Drakon... I could only hope you'd made it out safely yourself."

He turned back to look at her again. "I did, though it took me some time. And then I was a long time recovering."

"I heard," she said, and squeezed his hand. "Your father let me know how you were – I had regular reports about your progress until you were walking again. I'd have come to visit you, if I could, but..." she sighed. "I probably should have made the time anyway. But I wasn't sure if you'd _want_ to see me, or if I'd just raise bad memories for you."

He smiled at her, just a small crooked lift of his lips. "I'd have liked it if you came to visit, though I truly don't know if I'd have been up to it," he admitted, then frowned, looking around the room. "Where am I...?"

"Guest room, part of the royal apartments. I usually stay in this room when I visit, unless I've brought some of my wardens along and we're staying in the Grey Warden compound – I don't like staying at Cousland House. Too many memories lying in wait to ambush me there," she said darkly. "And I _won't_ stay in the Howe's old townhouse, even if it is technically mine now."

He squeezed her hand, winning a small smile from her. "Nathaniel – is he a Grey Warden now? Is that why he's with you? I didn't even know he was back in Ferelden..."

"Maker, small wonder you fainted then!" she exclaimed. "And yes, he's a Grey Warden now," she said. She frowned for a moment, biting on he lip. "I don't suppose anyone would have blamed him if he'd never returned from the Free Marches, not after everything his father had done to ruin the family name. But he'd heard only some garbled version of the story, and as many years as he'd been away, he'd never seen what his father had become; he thought _I_ was the one who'd turned into a butcher, when he heard the story. Well, not me personally, he hadn't even heard that I'd survived Highever and was now a Grey Warden, he just heard that his father had been murdered by a Grey Warden," she said, smiling crookedly. "Anyway, he returned to Ferelden meaning to avenge his father's death, and broke into Vigil's Keep, having heard that it had been given to the Grey Wardens, and assuming he'd find the Warden-Commander there. Only I wasn't there yet, being busy dealing with politics down in Denerim still, and then he got caught while thieving back some keepsakes of his mother's and thrown into the jail."

She paused a moment, frowning again, then continued. "He was lucky enough to be locked away so well that he survived the darkspawn invasion of the keep a few nights later – the darkspawn didn't have a key, and the jail door is _very_ solid – and then I arrived. I still remember how shocked I was to recognize him when I went down to take a look at the sneak-thief locked up down in the jail cells. He didn't recognize me, of course – I was in full armour, complete with helmet. He told me how he'd planned to lie in wait and kill me for what I'd done to his father. So I took off my helmet and told him a few choice truths about his father. He didn't want to believe me, not right away – he used to idolize his father, _you_ remember."

She fell silent, staring at the wall beyond the head of the bed for a moment, her hand loose in his. He lay still, just listening.

"I was so very angry still," she said quietly. "I came _this close_ to ordering him executed, but thankfully I realized it was his father I was really angry with, not him, before I did anything completely foolish. So I recruited him instead. For all the wrong reasons, I'm afraid – I was still wanting vengeance on the Howes for what Rendon had done to me, my family, and so many other people. In retrospect that influenced my decision to conscript Nate instead of just letting him go, as I easily could have done."

She went silent again. "I don't think Nathaniel really believed me about his father, not at first; he just couldn't imagine the father he remembered and the murderous bastard I'd killed being the same person. Not until we found Delilah in Amaranthine, and she told him about how their father had changed while he was gone. It was difficult for him to accept what had happened, but... he's a good man. Not at all like his father. And he's become a very good Grey Warden – one of my best," she said, and stirred at last, turning to look at Oswyn again, her hand tightening on his. "He wants to see you, if you're up to it. He still remembers you as a friend, though he's heard enough about all that Rendon did to understand if you don't wish to see him; I can tell him to go away for now if you'd prefer."

Oswyn swallowed. "Does he know about..." he broke off, unable to say anything further.

"Only that you were imprisoned and tortured; I've never told him any details of what little I saw, or guessed."

Oswyn nodded, and closed his eyes. He drew a long breath, his hand tightening on hers. "I'd like to see him, I think," he said, voice more than a little shaky. "Today was my first time to visit here since I recovered, you know? So it's been one memory returning after another. Mostly good ones – I spent part of the afternoon in the gardens."

He opened his eyes and looked at Katy as she laughed softly. "The eel fountain? The old stables?" she asked him, grinning widely.

He found himself smiling. "I'd forgotten the stables," he said, and blushed in memory of that particularly embarrassing misadventure of himself, Cailan and Nathaniel, and then they both laughed and suddenly everything was all right. He was with _friends_ again, old friends that he hadn't seen in far too long.

"I've missed you," he managed to say, and then somehow got himself sitting up enough to hug her, which with her in dusty armour and him in court dress was uncomfortable and awkward and at the same time it was _Katy_ , the closest thing to a younger sister he'd ever had, and everything was momentarily perfect, even the pains of his joints disappearing compared to the happiness he felt.

"Oh, Maker, I've gotten dust all over the bed and all over your lovely clothes," Katy groaned when they finally let each other go, her eyes suspiciously bright. "I swear, as filthy as I often was most of the Blight, and then afterwards in Amaranthine as well, I've stopped even _noticing_ road dust. It's just... always there, you know? And compared to some of the stuff I've gotten on myself since becoming a Grey Warden, this is actually _clean_."

Oswyn laughed. "A little dust won't hurt me, or my clothes," he told her as he carefully tried to disentangle one of his slashed sleeves from where it had become caught on the elbow of her armour. "This, on the other hand..."

She grinned. "Let me," she said, pushing his hand away, and quickly had his sleeve rescued from the decorative projections on her couter.

She rose to her feet then, and offered him a hand up, which he took, wincing as he rose to his feet. He didn't seem to have re-injured himself when he'd collapsed, but he was definitely sore from it. He looked around, and frowned. "I had a cane..."

"Oops. Probably still in the dining room," Katy said, and offered him her arm in reverse gallantry. He smiled, and took it, allowing her to give him some support as they walked slowly out of the room and down an interior hallway to the small dining room where he and Anora had been.

He stopped in the door, hand tightening on Katy's armour hard enough to make his knuckles white. Anora and Nathaniel were seated at the table, talking quietly, Nate in profile to him. That face, that _nose_...

Katy stopped moving, simply standing and waiting for him to regain his composure. Anora noticed them and broke off her conversation with Nate, both of them turning to look at Oswyn. He flushed slightly, hating being the focus of attention. "Sorry," he managed to croak out.

"As am I," said Nathaniel, softly.

He felt himself relax a little. The voice was not Rendon's, and the worried look in Nate's eyes was one Rendon would never have shown toward him. His fear dissipated; this was just Nathaniel. His old friend, as much a friend as Anora and Katy had ever been, and one he'd even been thinking of and missing earlier that very day. He managed to loosen his grip on Katy's arm – one that would have left bruises if not for her armour – and get himself back into motion toward the table. He resumed his seat at Anora's right hand, Katy taking the one across from her.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I am still not entirely recovered... I didn't know you were a Grey Warden, Nathaniel. It's good to see you again."

Nathaniel gave him a very small smile. "And to see you as well. I'm sorry my appearance startled you. And doubly sorry that you have reason to have been upset by seeing me unexpectedly," he added, a dark frown crossing his face.

" _You_ have nothing to be sorry for," Oswyn told him. "It's none of your fault, what happened while you were gone."

"Perhaps not," Nathaniel agreed, still frowning. "But I wish I had been here... maybe I could have prevented it, somehow."

"We all have a lot of what ifs from the Blight Year," Anora said quietly. "But we can't change the past; we can only survive it, and move on from it."

"And hopefully learn from it," Katy agreed. "And never forget it, no more than we forget the Orlesian occupation, or the rebellion."

A brief silence fell, each of them lost in their own thoughts of that pivotal year in all their lives. Anora was the first to break it, straightening slightly and picking up her folded napkin from beside her plate to spread in her lap. "Well. Enough of such weighty conversation for now. Let us eat," she said, and picked up a hand-bell beside her plate, ringing it loudly. The doors to the room swung open less than a minute later, allowing Anora's wine steward to enter, followed by a stream of servants, most carrying chafing dishes with small candles set in holders in their base to keep the contents warm, one a double-walled dish with ice chips filling the space between inner and outer dish, to keep its contents cool. They circled the table, each serving out what they carried – dark red wine, roast goose, a pottage of barley and wild mushrooms, a cold salad of blanched vegetables and cooked fish in the Antivan style, and a dish of mixed root vegetables cut into thick slices and roasted with oil, garlic and salt. The servants laid out the dishes on the sideboard after serving, and quickly departed.

For a few minutes all was silent save for the tink of fork or knife against plate, and the quiet sounds of chewing and swallowing.

"This wine is very nice," Nathaniel said after a while. "Antivan?"

"Yes," Anora said, smiling slightly and glancing across the table at Katy. "A gift from an admirer."

Katy laughed. "Oh, dear. Do I need to swat him down again, Anora?"

"No, he was good this time, and had the bottles openly delivered, rather than leaving them in my rooms himself."

Oswyn looked back and forth between the two women, puzzled as to what they were talking about. Nathaniel was hiding a smile behind one hand – clearly it was something he understood.

It was Katy who turned to Oswyn and explained. "I have a friend – one of my companions from the Blight Year, in fact. He has a bad habit of ignoring little things like guards and locks and going where he pleases, and he's decided he approves of Anora, and likes to leave her little gifts any time he visits Denerim."

"You make him sound like a cat," Nathaniel said, sounding amused. "With the wine being his equivalent of the mice Pounce is always leaving outside my bedroom door."

Katy's smile widened. "Zevran's just like one, actually. A good fighter, likes to laze around in the sun, wanders off on his own all the time, and is most likely to return when he's hungry or wants something from me."

Anora smiled. "Shall we mention his sharp claws and pointy ears too?"

"Only if you also mention my natural grace and stunning beauty," a voice said, seemingly out of thin air, making everyone but Nathaniel jump.

Katy scowled at Nate. "Where is he?" she asked him.

He gestured with his fingers toward the thickly draped ceiling-high windows behind Katy's back. "Up top. Third from the left as I'm facing it. He's been there since shortly before you and Oswyn returned."

"Bah," the voice said, and there was a sudden ripple down the length of the indicated drape as someone dropped to the floor along the wall behind it. The drape was then shoved unceremoniously to one side, revealing a dark-skinned blond elf dressed in leather armour of faded green and brown, a pair of very large daggers – almost short swords – hung in a harness from his back. He took a step forward, releasing the heavy fabric to fall back into place behind him, and went into a very deep genuflection toward the seated group.

"My deepest respects, Queen Anora. I am pleased that you find my humble gift satisfactory. Nathaniel, I _swear_ I will manage to escape your notice one of these days. Katy, I am wounded that you think I only return when I am hungry. Speaking of which, is there an extra plate?" he asked beseechingly, his eyebrows arching high as he rose to his feet and gave Anora and Katy an enquiring look.

Anora laughed; clearly she knew the elf, and found his antics amusing. "Make free," she told him, gesturing to the loaded sideboard. He was obviously familiar with the room; he knew which drawer and door in the sideboard to open to find both cutlery and a plate for himself, which he quickly loaded with food from the serving dishes, making an appreciative sound over and taking an extra-large helping of the cold salad. He carried his plate over and set it down between Nathaniel and Katy, both of them moving apart a little to make room for him, and then beamed at Oswyn. "You I don't know," he said, in a friendly tone of voice, and looked questioningly at Katy before turning away to go fetch himself a chair from the line of them along one wall.

"This is Oswyn, Bann Sighard's son – you should remember him, Zevran. You helped rescue him," she told him.

"I did?" the elf said as he set a chair in place, and frowned thoughtfully at Oswyn while he settled into it. "A-ha! Yes, I did – the young man in the dungeon, wasn't it? You are looking much improved since then, Ser Oswyn."

"Err... thank you," Oswyn said hesitantly. This must have been one of the crowd of people with Katy when she'd freed him. He frowned questioningly at the elf. "Are you also a Grey Warden?" he asked.

The elf laughed, while Katy and Nathaniel both smiled. "No, I am no warden," he told Oswyn. "Just an assassin."

"An _assassin_..." Oswyn exclaimed, stopping eating to stare wide-eyed at the elf.

"An Antivan Crow, to be more precise," the elf explained as he cut a piece of cold fish into smaller chunks. "To be most precise, an _ex_ -Antivan Crow. Nathaniel and Anora's fathers hired me to kill the surviving Grey Wardens – which included Katy, of course," he explained further, gesturing at her with his fork, then turned to Anora. "This is quite excellent. It should more properly be made with tuna, but this salmon is delicious."

Anora gave him an amused smile. "Salmon is a local fish, so it's actually fresh, which tuna would _not_ be," she pointed out to him.

"A very good point," he agreed, then turned back to Oswyn again. "I failed to kill Katherine, as I'm sure you must have guessed by now. And ended up her prisoner instead, and then she graciously spared my life and made me one of her companions. I have been her most loyal and devoted servant ever since," he added, giving Katy a soulful big-eyed look that made her laugh and hit his upper arm with the back of her hand.

"My largest annoyance, you mean," she corrected him with more than a little fondness evident in the tone of her voice, then turned to Oswyn herself. "He's reasonably well-skilled in a fight, so I decided to keep him," she told him.

"Reasonably well-skilled, she says! Please, my dear, I am..."

" _Ridiculously awesome_ ," everyone but Oswyn said in chorus, bringing a wide grin to Zevran's face and followed by a laugh from the other three. Oswyn smiled, feeling just the tiniest bit left out – clearly the words were an in-joke among them – yet also feeling very pleased that they were relaxed enough with him to joke so easily around him, and to include him in on their conversation.

"So what _are_ you doing here?" Katy asked Zevran. "Last I heard from you, you were planning to head further north again, not return to Ferelden."

The elf grimaced. "My plans changed," he said. "I decided it was safer to return here for a while instead; it turns out someone had anticipated my move. Thankfully I spotted them before they spotted me, so I am still all in one piece, which I regret to say that not all of _them_ are. But that is not a conversation to have over such an excellent meal. I will tell you more later, if you wish."

Katy nodded, and Anora adroitly turned the conversation to inconsequential matters after that – what a fine summer it had been, how good a harvest it looked like they were going to have this year. Katy and Nathaniel talked about their trip down from Vigil's Keep – also in the midst of some reconstruction following a major darkspawn attack the year after the Blight – and Zevran told them an amusing anecdote about his recent sea voyage from Wycome to Denerim.

Anora eventually rung for their plates to be cleared and dessert brought in. The first servant in the door checked slightly at the sight of a fifth person at table, then continued on as if it was nothing unusual; perhaps it wasn't, giving the elf's obvious familiarity with the royal apartments. Plates were whisked away, and dessert was soon brought in and served, a compote of tart summer berries with sweet almond-flour biscuits. Each of them got three biscuits, except Anora, who was given a fourth; clearly the servants had brought servings for only four people, not five-or-more, and had to adjust accordingly. A sweet white wine was served along with it. Conversation again died away as they concentrated on their food, broken only when Zevran sighed and put his spoon down beside his now-empty bowl.

"That was a most delicious meal. Do you mind if I excuse myself? I have some business I should take care of before retiring for the night," the elf said, glancing back and forth from Anora to Katherine.

"Of course," Anora said. "Do be sure to drop in on my guard-captain some time soon and explain to him just how you infiltrated my apartments again, would you?" she asked him sweetly.

He grinned as he rose to his feet, and bowed deeply to her. "Of course. I will see him first thing tomorrow." He gave a much shallower bow to Oswyn, nodded to Nathaniel, and bent down to whisper something briefly in Katy's ear before turning and walking out the door. Whatever he'd said made Katy smile and blush slightly.

Oswyn felt his eyebrows rising slightly. Were she and the elf...?

Katy glanced his way, and her blush deepened. She turned to Anora. "Do you mind if I steal Oswyn for a walk in the gardens for a little bit? You can catch up with Nathaniel and grill him about all the doings in Amaranthine."

Anora looked amused. "Of course. Just don't go dropping Oswyn out of any trees or pushing him into the lily pond."

Katy grinned at Anora's reference to some of their childhood misadventures. Oswyn realized he was grinning too as he rose to his feet. Katy had located his cane and was handing it to him before he could even ask what had happened to it, and then linked her hand into his other arm and steered him away.


	21. Chapter 21

They remained silent until they were outside, walking along one of the many paths winding through the gardens. Oswyn glanced sideways at Katy, and found himself thinking how much older she looked. Though perhaps that was unsurprising, given all that had happened her since the last time he'd seen her before the Blight, so happy and carefree at one of Cailan's many parties. She didn't really look all that much older – there were no wrinkles, not even any particularly noticeable scars save a hair-thin line across one side of her forehead, almost hidden by the fall of her hair. But there was... _something_... something about her eyes or just the way she held herself, maybe, that said this was someone who was no longer young and innocent.

"What's it like, being a Grey Warden?" he asked her.

She glanced at him, then returned her attention to the path ahead of them, her lips thinning momentarily. "Hard work, and lots of it. A lot of walking and fighting, during the Blight. Nightmares of the things I've seen and done..." She broke off, and sighed. "It's hard."

"Why did you stay one, then? Once the Blight ended..."

"Because it _needs_ doing, even when there isn't an active Blight," she interrupted. "Darkspawn don't just go away entirely between blights, you know. They're still there, down deep under. Waiting. Searching. _Breeding_. And once you've become a Grey Warden... it changes you. You can never _not_ be a Grey Warden again. It's a part of you; even if you try to walk away from it, you'll still be a Grey Warden for the rest of your life. And I'm _good_ at it. Almost scarily good at it; the fighting, and making the hard decisions, and just... everything." She fell silent for a while, then abruptly spoke again. "And it keeps me busy. When I'm busy, it's easier to forget... no, not forget. To just _not think_ about everything that happened to me during the Blight."

He nodded slowly. Given his own experiences during that year, he could certainly understand the attraction of being kept too busy to think about it. Maybe that was even a part of why he'd had such a hard time recovering – that he _didn't_ have anything to keep him busy, to distract him, to prevent him from dwelling on what had happened. No duty so important that he'd ignore his own pain in order to see to carrying out whatever it was that needed doing, as Katy had clearly done.

"Anyway," she said, and glanced sideways at him, a slight blush colouring her cheeks again. "About Zevran."

"You don't have to tell me," he said hurriedly.

She smiled, looking amused. "But I think I do. It's... complicated. He and I are lovers, but we're not _in love_ , you know? It's just... we're good friends, and we both lost the people we really loved, him just before the Blight year and me at the end of it."

Oswyn looked at her quizzically. "Who was that?"

Katy smiled crookedly. "I'm surprised haven't heard about that yet. There was a second Grey Warden who survived Ostagar. Alistair," she said, and looked away, head bowed down a little. "A bastard son of King Maric's, oddly enough. Anyway, he and I... well, events threw us together, and we eventually came to care for each other very much. But only I survived the killing of the Archdemon," she said, and the sorrow in her voice as she said that, even now, some years after the fact, made it clear just how much she'd loved the man.

"I think I did hear a little of that," Oswyn said slowly, thinking back to odds and ends of things he'd heard people say during his recovery. "Didn't Arl Eamon want him made King in Cailan's place?"

"Yes," Katy said, and made a face. "Stubborn old fool. Alistair had no interest in the throne, nor any training for it, come to that, for all he'd been raised in Eamon's household. As a _servant_ ," she snarled. "I fear Eamon saw Alistair merely as a convenient puppet for him to manipulate. Anyway, I saw no reason to make Alistair the king when all he wanted to be was a Grey Warden, and by my side, especially as Anora has always done a good job as Queen. Her only failure that I could see was to allow her father to name himself regent when she withdrew for a while in her grief after Cailan's death at Ostagar. So I named her Queen, when the choice was given to me at the Landsmeet. And then Alistair died anyway, in slaying the Archdemon," she finished softly. "So. I mourned for a while, and then Zevran happened to visit me up in Amaranthine and drift back into my life and it's... comforting, to have someone like him around. Someone who's a friend, who cares for me, but who also understands that I'm not looking for love. Not any more."

Oswyn nodded, and reached over to take Katy's hand in his, as she'd held his earlier. "I'm sorry for your loss," he said quietly.

She turned and smiled at him. "Thank you," she said. "Anyway, that's twice now that we've talked all about me. I want to know how are _you_ , Oswyn? Your father's messages to me only told me a little about your physical recovery..."

Oswyn sighed. This time it was him that looked away. "It's been hard," he admitted. And told her, as much of it as he could stand to say aloud anyway, of his slow recovery. The physical side was easiest to discuss; the mental and emotional side he frankly avoided – it was too hard to talk about to someone who was a long-time friend, who'd known him so well before he'd changed. To shaming, to try and tell her of all that had been done to him, or how it had changed him.

Even with as abbreviated a telling as it was, he had to fall silent and regain his composure more than once. But Katy just sat there, their hands clasped together, and listened quietly. "I'm glad you're getting better," she said when he'd finished. "I know there's things you're not telling me – and you don't have to – I just hope there's someone that you _can_ talk to, about everything else. I have some idea of just how difficult that can be," she added ruefully.

"I... yeah, I think there is," Oswyn slowly said, remembering again how easy it had seemed to talk to Varel about some of his problems, how attentively and sympathetically the elf had listened to him.

"Good," Katy said, giving him a warm smile, then sighed and released his hand. "And I suppose we should go back indoors. I'm sure Anora wished to talk with you as well."

Oswyn nodded, and the two went back inside, where Nathaniel and Anora had moved from the dining room to an adjacent sitting room, and were sitting talking quietly over wine. It still made him nervous, that first glimpse of Nate's features as they walked into the room, even prepared for it and knowing that it _wasn't_ Rendon Howe he was seeing.

Katy quickly excused herself and Nathaniel, citing their long day on the road. "Join me for breakfast tomorrow," Anora told her as the two exchanged a careful hug. "Both of you," she added, looking to Nathaniel, who nodded agreement.

After Katy and Nate left, Anora motioned for Oswyn to sit down in the seat Nathaniel had just vacated. She fetched a clean goblet from the sideboard for him herself, filling it before handing it to him and resuming her own seat.

"Well... we certainly didn't get anywhere near as much time to talk tonight as I was hoping for," she told him, as she picked up her own goblet. "Though it was certainly very nice to see both Katherine and Nathaniel again."

"It was," he agreed, and took a sip of his wine. "Apart from my little fainting incident this has been a most pleasant day."

"I can hardly blame your for your reaction to be unexpectedly confronted with Nathaniel," Anora said, frowning. "I underwent considerably less in Howe's hands than you did – merely being locked up in a guest bedroom for a while, nothing more than a bad fright really – and I still found it difficult to face Nathaniel the first time I encountered him afterwards. It was all too easy to want to blame the acts of the father on the son as well. Now... now I suppose I mostly feel sorry for him. Through no fault of his own he's lost the future he'd been raised towards, seen the honour of his family so foully besmirched that they are effectively ruined in this country. He's lost all his family but his sister, lost his home, was imprisoned and then forcibly made a Grey Warden. More, most people treat him as if his father's crimes have rubbed off on him, and even those of us who were his friends..."

She paused, and looked saddened. "Well, you remember what great friends he and Fergus always were, growing up – knowing that some day Fergus would be Nathaniel's liege lord, as Teryn of Highever. Fergus can't stand to see him any more; not after what Rendon did to the Couslands."

"Yet Katy's overcome that," Oswyn pointed out.

"Yes, but she actually killed Rendon herself, and thereby gained some degree of revenge for what he'd done to her and hers. Fergus was buried somewhere deep in the Chasind wilds for much of the Blight, recovering from his injuries, knowing only from what the tribesman were able to tell him that Ostagar had fallen, King Cailan and the Grey Wardens all killed. It wasn't until he was well enough to travel north again that he began to hear of what had happened just before Ostagar; his entire family slain and accused of being traitors, and Howe claiming the right to the title. Then later learning that Katy at least had lived but was now a Grey Warden, and considered a traitorous criminal, with a price on her head."

She paused a moment, looking pained. "Fergus swore revenge on Howe and my father himself, you know – and then on the way to Denerim learned that Howe was slain, and by the time he actually reached Denerim the Landsmeet was over, my father was dead as well, and all of us had headed off west to Redcliffe. So unlike Katy, who had been involved in the deaths of both, he never got a chance to take out his anger for what had happened on anyone. He was in very bad shape for a long time after the Blight ended. When Nathaniel re-appeared in Vigil's Keep some time later, well, he just can't face him any more. Perhaps in time his grief and anger will recede enough to allow it, though I don't think they'll ever be such close friends again."

Oswyn nodded slowly. "I can understand that," he said, then looked at her questioningly. "I'm surprised that you yourself don't seem to bear Katy any ill-will, after your father's death."

Anora looked down at her lap, folding her hands loosely over each other. "I did, at first... I'd asked her to spare my father, if she could. He was a great man once... but he had changed. Ostagar had changed him; it was as if he blamed himself for everything that had gone wrong there. For a while I blamed him too – but I heard enough from others eventually to face the fact that withdrawing from the field was likely the only choice he realistically could have made. I think... I think withdrawing, leaving Cailan to die, I think it killed something in him. He and Maric had always been so close, and then he'd been like a second father to Cailan for much of his life. He... wasn't entirely sane, after Cailan's death, I think. Katy _tried_ to spare him, but he insisted on a duel to settle the issue, as was his right."

She fell silent, sitting very motionless, head still lowered, then drew a slow, deep breath. "I think... after I went over to the Warden's side... I think he may have realized then how far he'd strayed from the path of honour. I think at that point he gave up; he _wanted_ to die. He fought, yes, but there was a point during the duel, right before the end, when I was sure he had an opening and could have easily won. And he didn't take the stroke. He left himself open instead, and Alistair..." She broke off again, and when she continued her voice was uneven and rough. "Alistair killed him. It was fast, at least."

She lifted her hands then, pressing them over her face. Crying, he was sure. He hesitated, not sure how welcome any comfort from him would be, then mentally cursed and levered himself out of his seat, taking the few steps needed to reach her chair. He could not crouch or kneel beside it, and had to settle for leaning over enough to rest his arm around her shoulders. She dropped her hands, turning to bury her face against him, one hand clutching tightly to the arm of her chair and the other clenched around a fistful of fabric from his jacket. It took her some time to regain her composure, by which time his back and legs were protesting the awkward stance.

"I'm sorry," she said, sniffling, and wiping at her face with the heels of her palms. "I thought I was past crying over that."

"I'm sorry too," he said quietly as he returned to his own seat. "He _was_ a great man once – for most of his life, certainly for almost all of ours," he clarified, and fell silent for a while. "Perhaps we – Ferelden – came to rely too much on just one man. He was never... well, he never seemed quite the same after King Maric disappeared, did he."

"No, he wasn't," Anora agreed, voice sounding thin and tired. "They were very close, he and Maric. Like brothers, though don't ask me which was the older and wiser one," she added, and smiled faintly. "I used to think that maybe they took it in turns."

That drew a smile from Oswyn, a smile that Anora returned. "I'm sorry," she said. "There was more I wished to speak to you about, but... perhaps another time. Will you be remaining in Denerim for much longer? I will likely be busy the next day or two with whatever it is that has brought Katherine in to visit..."

Oswyn nodded his head. "I'll be around. I've a wedding to attend sometime early next week, so I'll be remaining at least until that's over with."

"A wedding? Whose?" she asked curiously, frowning slightly.

"No one you'd be aware of; an alienage elf, actually, the one that was with me yesterday," he explained. "We were visiting the chantry so he could arrange for a priest to attend a group wedding in the alienage next week; perhaps next time there'll be time for me to tell you how I met, I'm afraid it's a rather lengthy story."

Anora smiled charmingly at him. "I'll wait then. Thank you for coming; I'm just sorry we didn't have time to really talk, though I quite enjoyed our earlier conversations."

"As did I," Oswyn told her, as they both rose to their feet. They spent a few minutes in saying their farewells, then he set off back to his family's townhouse, his guards falling into step behind him as he passed from the royal apartments out to the more public areas of the castle.


	22. Chapter 22

Varel put aside his piece-work for a few days, and spent the time in preparing his home for his upcoming marriage. It was reasonably clean and neat, but he wanted it to be nice for his bride. So first he gave everything as thorough a cleaning as he could manage, and then he set to making it all look nice. The age-darkened, smoke-stained walls were given a fresh coat of whitewash. He sanded and oiled the floor, leaving it smooth and gleaming, and rubbed down his few pieces of furniture with a mix of beeswax and cedar oil. The rooms needed a bit of an airing out after all that, opening the few windows to let the breeze through, but that gave him a good opportunity to clean the glass both inside and out.

He spent some of his purse from Bann Sighard on things for the house as well; a set of pots and pans, storage jars, a good supply of staples – barley, flour, salt, dried beans and peas, a side of bacon, a smoked ham, hard cheese, seasonings, honey, even a small amount of sugar. On impulse he also picked up new sheets for the bed, of smooth unbleached cotton imported all the way from Antiva. Those he stored away for now, planning to remake the bed with them the day of his wedding. Something new and special, as he hoped his bride would be.

He was washing his supper dishes early one evening, considering whether or not to buy anything else for the place, when there was a sudden knock at the door. "It's open!" he called.

One of Alarith's cronies stuck his head into the room, and nodded at Varel. "Alarith sent me to tell you, he's had word that the ship from Kirkwall has arrived down at the docks. He's sent a runner off to the chantry to let the priest know; weddings will be tomorrow morning, unless the priest can't make it for some reason. Says you need to be ready to meet your bride after breakfast tomorrow."

Varel nodded, drying off his hands. "Thanks. I'll be ready."

The man nodded. "I'll tell him. You've done a nice job on this place," he added, then disappeared again, closing the door behind him.

Varel finished washing and drying and putting away the dishes, then hurried downstairs and found a runner of his own, paying the girl a whole silver to make the long trip south over the river to the palace district and bring word to Oswyn about the weddings. Then he crossed over to the Denerim market himself; he'd been planning to wear some of the clothing that Oswyn had given him, for his marriage outfit, but suddenly found himself feeling superstitious about wearing an outfit that didn't include something new. He soon located a tailor who had a number of shirts already made up, and picked out one in a crisply starched white cotton cloth, with a simple embroidered pattern, also in white but of some shinier thread, edging the cuffs and bordering the placket.

On impulse he also stopped at one of the shops he'd guided Oswyn to several days before, and picked up some soap – a bar of something spicy-scented for himself, and a bar that smelled of lilacs, as a little gift for his bride.

Arriving back home, he hung up the shirt along with the leggings, stockings, and long vest for the next day, gave the boots he planned to wear with it all a good brushing, and then set water to heating for a bath. He washed himself from head to toes, standing by the warm stove, including giving his hair a good washing, dressed in a clean nightshirt, and tidied up after himself before finally going to bed. It took him a long time to get to sleep, wondering what his bride would be like, and hoping that they'd like each other.

* * *

Varel woke in the grey pre-dawn, and stumbled out to the main room of his apartment for a hurried breakfast of bread and cheese. He stripped and changed the bed, spreading it with the clean new sheets, tucking them in as neatly as he could. The old sheets and his dirty clothes he bundled up by the door, after which he washed his face, rinsed his mouth, trimmed and cleaned his nails, then dampened and combed his hair, neatly braiding the long forelocks and fastening them back to hold the rest of it in place. After that it was time to change into his wedding clothes – clean smalls, neat stockings of finely knit thread, leggings of buttery light brown suede, the new shirt, the long sleeveless vest of leather. The vest was of a darker brown then the leggings and with a continuous band of intricate embossing in an interlaced pattern running around the neck opening, down both sides of the front, and then curving back along the bottom hem. The arm openings were circled by the same pattern, as was the belt that fastened around the waist of the long vest to keep it closed. The interlacing lines formed star-shaped patterns at intervals, each picked out in gilt – mostly rubbed away from previous wear, the outfit being a hand-me-down of Oswyn's outgrown clothing, but still much more fine-looking that anything else Varel had ever owned.

He added his nightshirt to the bundle of clothing, took a last look around the apartment to make sure everything was clean and neat and ready for his bride, then hefted the bundle and headed downstairs. He stopped at the laundress he used, leaving the bundle with her and accepting her congratulations in advance, then hurried on to the square around the vhenadahl tree.

The others getting married today were already gathering; he was the second-last to arrive. Three women, and four other men, eight of them in total. Alarith arrived a short time later, dressed in his best finery and looking pleased; it was good for the alienage to be getting new blood in, especially when it was still so underpopulated compared to its pre-Blight numbers.

He gave them a talk, which Varel barely heard, as anxious as he was feeling to finally meet his future wife. He scanned the growing crowd of elves arriving to watch the wedding ceremony, and partake in the feast and dancing afterwards, and smiled when he saw Oswyn off to one side, leaning on his cane and talking to the woman who'd been making lace when he'd visited before.

Finally the time for introductions came around. Alarith led the group of them off to a building near his store, where the group of incomers had been housed overnight. Within minutes of walking in the door, Varel was meeting his bride.

She was lovely; considerably shorter than he was, the top of her head only just reaching his shoulder, with the darker skin of Antivan heritage, long chestnut hair, and eyes of a particularly pale apple-green shade, like peridot, that stood out dramatically against her warm golden skin. Her hair was caught up in a simple ponytail that cascaded down over one shoulder in a froth of loose curls. She was wearing a simple dress of plain dark green fabric, and a fringed silk shawl of even darker green wrapped around her shoulders; Orlesian work, beautifully embroidered with a border of colourful flowers. She met his eyes as they were introduced, chin lifted, not in the least shy or hesitant. Myra, her name was.

"So you're a mercenary?" she asked, as she led him to a nearby bench, and took a seat.

"Was a mercenary," he said, as he sat down beside her. She was studying him as intently as he'd studied her. "I'm recently discharged from the company I was serving with; voluntarily. I didn't like the morals of the new commander."

"Oh? What was wrong with them?" she asked, tilting her head just slightly to one side.

"He had none. Or at least none that I particularly agreed with. A pity; his father, the original commander, had been known as an honourable man, at least as much as a mercenary commander can be honourable. It's why I'd originally been pleased to enlist with that particular company. I'm looking for another position now, as a guard or mercenary, and have sufficient savings that I don't need to rush into the first position I can find. And what of yourself? Alarith told me you were a widow, and from Kirkwall, but little else."

Myra nodded. "Yes. I was born and raised in Kirkwall. My father was also from Kirkwall; my mother was from Antiva. I learned a craft from her – knitting lace shawls – with which I was able to support myself. Once I was of age the hahren arranged a marriage for me. My first husband was Orlesian, from Val Chevin, the servant of a minor noble who'd suffered some financial difficulties. He had a small establishment in Kirkwall and found it wiser to retire there rather than to remain in Orlais. A nice man, very kind to his servants. Unfortunately he had a taste for drinking and gambling in low establishments, and would never believe that Kirkwall was as dangerous after dark as it is. A little over a year after we were married, my husband was killed when they were set upon by a gang of cultists while walking back to his master's mansion in Hightown; he'd died defending his master, so I was given a small compensation payment in thanks for his bravery," she added, just a touch of bitterness entering her voice.

Varel could read between the lines of her husband's story – a master with gambling debts, likely his Orlesian properties were all seized leaving him no choice but moving out of the country. A smaller, quieter life in remote Kirkwall. Likely with enough new gambling debts acquired there that whatever compensation he'd paid had been a minimal amount. Though that he'd paid anything at all for the death of a mere elf spoke well for him; many nobles, particularly Orlesians, viewed elves as standing somewhere between dogs and cattle in importance. Sometimes even lower than cattle.

"Anyway, I had enjoyed marriage life, so after I'd mourned my husband sufficiently, I let our hahren know that I was interested in remarrying. I had been thinking of staying in Kirkwall, originally, but then he mentioned that there was plenty of room in Denerim, and things in Kirkwall have become very tense over the last few years, so I thought moving here sounded like an excellent idea."

Varel found himself liking the woman already; she'd spoken in a very matter-of-fact way, meeting his eyes calmly, her voice composed. She seemed to have cared for her previous husband, but his death had not broken her; she'd mourned him, and carried on with her life. As their conversation continued, she asked more about himself and his past, as well as his plans for the future, and seemed reasonably pleased with his answers and manner as well. By the time Alarith returned to let the couples know that the priest was here and they should all head outdoors for the wedding, he was feeling rather pleased; she seemed just the sort of sensible, self-sufficient woman that he wanted for a partner.

Myra and the other Kirkwall elves retired to their rooms to make final adjustments or changes to their clothing for their weddings; meanwhile the Denerim elves went out to the small raised platform where the wedding would take place, lining up and exchanging smiles and grins with each other and with friends and family in the audience. He spotted Oswyn again, standing near the back of the crowd, and could see that Soris and Shianni were with him, and were busy introducing him to Soris' wife Lila.

Mother Perpetua strode up the steps and onto the platform. She was a plain-faced woman, with red hair beginning to fade to a gingery hue, and a rather firm set to her chin. She looked around and smiled. "Right. Are we ready to get underway?" she asked Alarith.

He nodded, and signalled to his wife, over at the door of the house where the new brides and grooms were. She nodded, and vanished indoors, returning a minute later with the line of them following her. The waiting audience shuffled apart to leave an aisle for them to walk through to the stage, closing again behind them once they'd passed.

Varel's eyes went right to Myra. She was still in the same green dress, but had added a second shawl to it, wrapped around her head and shoulders with just her face and a little of her throat uncovered. It was of filmy white lace, and looked as fine and soft as cobweb. He wondered momentarily if it was one of the lace shawls she'd spoken of as being her craft to make, and then as she reached his side and took her place at his side, and he took her hand in his, he forgot about everything but the ceremony at hand.

Mother Perpetua started with a thankfully brief reading from the Chant of Light, then gave a short speech about marriage, and the rights and responsibilities of the married couple. After that there was another reading from the Chant – this time sung, with everyone participating – while she worked her way along the line of couples, formally tying each pair of hands together with ribbon, then censing them with sweetly scented smoke while speaking a blessing to each pair. When she was done all the couples each grasped a loop of their ribbon and tugged on it. How smoothly the ribbon unknotted was supposed to be a sign of how well their marriage would run; a snarl was held to be a particularly bad sign, while if it knotted itself rather than untying that was a very good sign. Varel was relieved that his and Myra's ribbon slid smoothly undone, with barely a bobble in the slide of fabric on fabric. The two of them exchanged a warm, amused smile as they held the ends of their ribbon. Myra gave a little tug on it, and Varel's smile widened, as he stepped closer and leaned down to kiss her; just a light, almost chaste brush of lips against lips, but full of promise for their future.


	23. Chapter 23

Oswyn had managed to convince his guards not to accompany him into the alienage, but only after explaining to them that their presence would make the elves more likely to be hostile towards him, not less. They'd compromised by attending him as far as the marketplace bridge, then remained there, leaning against the railing and trying unsuccessfully not to look too out of place.

He arrived to find the square packed with elves, even more than the first day he'd been there. One of them – the woman who'd been making lace – recognized him and stopped to chat with him for a few minutes. She was cautiously friendly at first, then warmed up when she learned he was there to watch Varel get married, after which she chatted quite happily with him about marriage customs among the elves, which sounded not much different that those among the humans. But then the alienage elves were follows of Andraste, and citizens of Ferelden too, so he supposed that only made sense.

She eventually went off to speak to someone else, and he stood around for a little while, just looking over the square. There was a raised platform at the southeast corner of it that had been decorated with streamers and a few weedy-looking flowers, where he guessed the ceremony would take place. The rest of the square was packed with elves, all waiting to watch the wedding.

"Well, look who's here again," a familiar voice said at his elbow, and he turned to find Shianni standing there, giving him a curious look.

"Now be polite, Shianni, you know Varel invited him," Soris said, walking up to join them, then smiled warmly at Osywn. "Good to see you again."

"And you," Oswyn said, smiling back at him.

Before they could speak any further, there was a stir as the local brides and grooms re-emerged from the building they'd gone into, and made their way to the platform, taking their places in a line that wrapped around two sides of it, facing the crowd of well-wishers. Oswyn spotted Varel among them, then was distracted as another elf joined him, Soris, and Shianni – another woman, obviously pregnant, whom Soris introduced as his wife, Lila. She was of a height with Soris, with dark brown hair caught up in a large bun, and bright blue eyes. She greeted him warmly enough to make him smile, though he wasn't sure if that was because of whatever she'd heard of him from Soria and Shianni, or merely part of her professional demeanour as a bar maid.

The priest from the chantry walked up and took her place on the platform. She looked vaguely familiar, in the way that most of the priests of the Denerim chantry looked vaguely familiar to him from years of attending services. She leaned over and spoke a word to the hahren, and he nodded and gestured to someone across the square; Oswyn didn't see who, they'd already vanished indoors by the time he turned to look and see. Then the imported brides and grooms walked out, and everyone had to squeeze aside to make room for them to walk to the platform and take their places. The elf who joined Varel was wearing a dark green dress, her head and shoulders swathed in a beautiful shawl, knit of wool that looked as fine as cobweb. Her skin was a shade or two darker than Oswyn's, and she only came up to his shoulder. Even though they'd only just met today, the look she gave him as she turned her head to look up at him was warm, and Oswyn found himself wishing that he'd ever had anyone look at him in such a way.

The ceremony was both simple and beautiful, and it was clear from the expressions on faces – on the participants, on their witnesses – that everyone found the ceremony deeply moving. Mother Perpetua seemed to almost glow as she moved through the steps of the ritual, a look of such contentment and peaceful pleasure on her face that Oswyn found himself feeling unexpectedly moved to tears. Nor was he the only person who was sniffling.

He grinned, cheeks still damp, as Varel and his bride tugged the ribbon that bound their hands together free, then kissed. Everyone started clapping and cheering. The hahren stepped to the front of the platform after a minute or so, and raised his hands for silence. "The ceremony is over; let the banquet begin, as we wish for the happiness of today's couples," he called out, then gestured the newlyweds to leave the stage in couples, calling out the names of each as they descended the few steps to be greeted and congratulated by their friends and family. Oswyn edged back out of the crowd to a protected spot between a building and a slanted timber support, where he wouldn't get accidentally knocked over, and watched as Varel and his bride – Myra, her name was – descended and were greeted by Soris and Shianni, among others, before the group of them disappeared into the crowd.

He was standing there, not sure of what to do now – to stay or go, or whether he would even be welcome to the wedding feast – when he was approached by Mother Perpetua. She gave him a curious look. "Hello – I was surprised to see another, ah... _shem_ here," she said. "Do you know one of the participants, or did you just happen to be passing through and get trapped by the crowd?" she asked, looking pointedly at his cane.

"I know one of the participants," he told her. "Varel Baern... actually I went with him to the chantry last week when he was arranging for you to attend. It took considerably longer than I'd have thought it would take to find a priest to officiate at a wedding."

Mother Perpetua made a face. "Yes. Unfortunately all too many of my colleagues forget that the elves, like us, are also followers of Andraste; that they too were slaves, and fought at her side. They think of them as lesser; the worst of them don't even consider them to really be people. Utter nonsense of course!"

"I've met people like that," Oswyn agreed. "I'm glad you were willing to come," he added.

She smiled. "Mother Boann, the priest who used to minister to the alienage, is my friend; we've known each other from when we were both novices. When she was raised to be the Revered Mother of Highever, I know she agonized over what would become of her friends here in the alienage. I promised her that I'd see to it that they were still cared for. I'm afraid I've let my studies distract me from caring for them as well as I should; I should have visited earlier, and let their _hahren_ know that I was taking her place. But come, give me your arm, and let me help you to the feast; the crowd is thinning out enough that we should be able to walk there without danger to your footing."

"Thank you," he said, and let her link her right arm with his left and guide him, the two of them walking slowly to make it easier for him to keep his balance on the uneven cobbles. "Your studies?" he asked curiously.

She smiled again. "Yes. I'm afraid my area of study is as controversial as my ministering to the elves, at least among the more narrow-minded – excuse me, _traditionally_ minded – of my fellow priests. I've taken an interest in the study of the dissonant verses. Our Sister Archivist – Sister Justine – was lucky enough to purchase an ancient copy of the Chant of Light from some adventurers during the Blight Year. An extraordinarily rare find; it's value is incalculable, at least among scholars. It's ancient enough to still include many of the verses that were later removed. Unfortunately she died without ever seeing the documents fully translated – she was one of many we lost during the Blight Year."

"Translated?"

"Language has changed much since the Canticles were originally written. And they were in cypher, as well, though why someone took the time to obscure their contents I have not yet been able to puzzle out. Deciphering it and rendering the wording into the common tongue is puzzle enough for me! And the differences between it and the Canticles as we know them today are intriguing, though I sometimes think whomever wrote it must have been as wandering in wits as dear Sister Theohild; her often eccentric rendering of the verses would feel right at home with some of the verses I've been translating of late."

"Sister Theohild... that name sounds very familiar..." Oswyn said, frowning in thought.

Mother Perpetua smiled. "I'm not surprised. For a mere sister she was much more widely known than many of the priests. She used to stand at the entrance to the chantry grounds, just off of the market, and recite passages of the Chant of Light. Unfortunately she rather tended to wander in her thoughts while rattling them off by rote, and was well-known for making rather erroneous word substitutions as a result. Veal instead of veil and so forth."

"Of course! I remember her now," Oswyn said happily. "Is she still around?"

"Sadly not; we lost her as well during the Blight Year. Witnesses say she held the mouth of an alleyway against a small force of darkspawn long enough for a group of urchins to escape away down it. She may have been elderly and wandering a little in her wits at times, but she was vicious with a broom handle. I miss her still, even if she used to drive me to distraction at times. Anyway, here we are," she added, and led the way into one of the buildings ringing the square.

It looked to have once been a factory or warehouse of some sort; the ground floor was a single huge room, broken up only by the support columns holding up the roof. Numerous tables had been arranged along one wall, all laden with food, a multitude of different dishes that he supposed must have been contributed by the attendees. Stacks of small trencher breads, already cut in halves, waited in large trays at the near end of the table. People were lining up to take a half-loaf, then work their way along the tables, putting a scoop of this or a spoonful of that onto their bread, after which they joined the crowd standing in the middle of the room, everyone chattering away as they ate with their fingers.

Mother Perpetua saw Oswyn into the line, then headed off to speak to the hahren. Oswyn found himself drawing a few odd looks from the elves around him in line, then Shianni suddenly popped up at his elbow, smiling for once. "There you are! We lost track of you after we went to greet Varel and Myra – here, let me help you with your trencher, I doubt you can manage it and your cane at the same time," she said, and picked up two half loafs, easily balancing them both on her left hand and forearm while she scooped bits of this and that onto them. When they were both piled with food she took the one from her forearm into her right hand, and led him through the crowd to a corner where Varel and his bride were seated on a bench, Soris and Lila standing nearby with their own trenchers. "I found him!" Shianni called out as they approached.

Varel grinned, and slid closer to Myra, gesturing for Oswyn to take the bit of space that opened up on the bench. He did so with considerable relief, glad to be back off his feet for a while, and accepted one of the trenchers from Shianni.

"So what did you think of the wedding?" Varel asked, before he scooped up some of his own food with his fingertips and deftly ate it.

"It was lovely," Oswyn told him. "Very moving. Congratulations to the both of you," he added, leaning forward enough to smile at Myra past Varel.

Myra smiled and blushed slightly. "Thank you," she said, sounding very composed.

"You're from Kirkwall?" Oswyn asked, and flushed. He knew the answer, of course, but it was the only question that had sprang readily to mind.

She smiled again, looking slightly amused. "Yes. I was born and raised in the alienage there. Have you ever visited Kirkwall?"

"No. I never travelled much before I... before the Blight Year. And that was all within Ferelden. Did you like it there?"

She nodded. "It's a nice enough city, I suppose. But then I've never really had anything else to compare it to. My mother used to talk about how much safer it was in Kirkwall than in Antiva, and my first husband, who was Orlesian, said that Kirkwall elves had much better living conditions than he'd ever seen in Orlais. Though what little I've seen of here so far seems even nicer; there's so much room! The air is so much cleaner, too, and some people even have enough room for gardens!"

Oswyn was a little taken aback by Myra's enthusiasm; he'd thought the alienage rather crowded and dank, if anything, But he remembered what Varel had said about how much lower the population here was since the Blight Year, and realized that how crowded it seemed was a relative matter, and that his own opinion on the matter was doubtless skewed by the amount of space he was used to having. Varel's entire apartment, he remembered, was smaller than his own suite of rooms back home, yet was apparently a large space for a single elf. He remembered how some of the less well-off of his father's own tenant-farmers lived – entire families in a one- or two-roomed little cottage – and considered the alienage at that sort of population level. Yes, it would certainly have a lot more people in it than were currently here.

Shianni had asked Myra a question while he was distracted, and the two women were now talking animatedly about something to do with dressmaking, so he concentrated on eating his meal. He wasn't as adept as eating with just his fingers, being more used to having cutlery to use, but managed to eat the bits and pieces of things on his trencher without making a mess. Very little of it involved meat, he noticed, most of the food being based on grains, beans, nuts, and vegetables. He supposed that reflected how expensive meat was in the city, and how hard it was to keep, as compared to a turnip, a string of onions, or a bag of oats. Though there was a rather good pottage of barley and some sort of dark-fleshed fowl, so finely shredded it was impossible to tell the type of bird for certain, and he was certain he tasted beef in a dab of stewed vegetables, and mutton with some beans. Once he'd finished the various foods, he broke off pieces of the trencher to nibble on, enjoying the flavours of the juices that had soaked into the hard, dry bread.

The room was beginning to empty out, he saw, and a little while later Soris gathered up the remnants of their trenchers to take away and add to a barrel of such scraps, while Shianni fetched some damp cloths for them to clean their fingers with.

"Do you have much luggage to be carried to my... to _our_ home?" Varel asked Myra.

She smiled warmly at him. "A large chest, and a single pack. I can manage the pack by myself."

Varel nodded. "All right. Soris and I can hopefully manage the chest between the two of us," he said, then turned to Oswyn. "We might as well say farewell here, rather then you trying to climb all the stairs up to my place. I'm glad you were able to come for the wedding."

"I'm glad I was able to come as well," Oswyn told him. "I'm likely to be here in Denerim at least a few more days; perhaps I can have the two of you over for a meal once Myra is properly settled in?"

Varel looked surprised, then pleased. "I'd like that," he said, with real warmth in his voice. He and Myra both rose, and said their good-byes to everyone, then headed off with Soris in tow.

Shianni remained behind, to Oswyn's surprise. She hadn't seemed to like him at all on his previous visit here, but her attitude towards him seemed to have undergone a change, he thought. Which was confirmed by her next words. "Could you use a hand getting back to the marketplace bridge?" she asked him, voice almost pointedly neutral. "The ground is at least dry, through it's still pretty uneven..."

He smiled at her. "Thank you, I'd appreciate that," he said, and rose to his feet with the aid of his cane before carefully taking her by the arm.

They walked in silence at first. It wasn't until they'd left the building and crossed the square that she suddenly spoke. "Since your visit before, Soris has told me a lot about what it was like for him in the dungeon. He says having you to talk to was one of the few things that helped him to stay sane."

Oswyn glanced sideways at her. She was looking forward, head turned slightly away from him, chin lifted determinedly. "The same was true for me, of him," he told her quietly. "It was a very bad time for me; he kept me sane as well." They walked on a few more steps, until the bridge came in sight, before he spoke again. "Shianni... I can't even begin to say how much I owe Soris. It's not easy to talk about. For him either, I suspect. But if he's ever in trouble, if there's ever anything he needs, anything that I can do to help him and Lila – send word to me, please. I don't want to shame or embarrass him with assistance he doesn't need or want, but I trust you'd know when he _really_ needed help."

Shianni stopped walking, and turned to study him intently for a long moment, then smiled, a real smile this time, warm and friendly. "You're a good man," she said approvingly. "All right. I promise, if he ever needs help you can give, and is too proud to ask for it himself, I'll send word."

"Thank you," he said. They continued on. He spotted his guards, still waiting patiently on the bridge. "And there's my guards... I should be fine from here on. Thank you for your help."

She smiled again. "You're welcome," she said, and turned and walked back into the alienage. Oswyn smiled as well, watching her go, then turned away and made his careful way along the bridge to his guards. They caught sight of him as he drew near, and rose to their feet.

"Have a good time at the wedding, ser?" one asked.

"Yes. I'm glad I came," he said, and led the way across the bridge.


	24. Chapter 24

The chest proved rather larger and heavier than Varel and Soris could manage on their own; they had to recruit another couple of people to help carry it up to Varel's rooms. Thankfully there were plenty of volunteers on hand.

They put it down in the main room, it being too large to go into the tiny bedroom, and pushed it up against the wall under one of the windows, where it could double as a seat. Varel and Myra thanked everyone, and saw them to the door and then... they were alone. Just the two of them, and freshly married.

Myra looked around the room, taking in the few furnishings, the neatly organized kitchen, how clean everything was, then turned and smiled almost shyly at Varel. "Would you like to show me where everything is?" she asked.

Varel did just that, proud of being able to show her the well-stocked shelves in the kitchen, the small but brightly-lit bedroom with the bed covered with brand new sheets and well-fluffed pillows. She smiled approvingly at everything, and when he was done went and opened her chest, unlocking it with a key hung on a long chain around her neck. She lifted the lid, and folded back a layer of plain muslin, then lifted out a big bundle of colourful fabric that took both arms to lift; a quilt, he realized as she turned from the chest and he made sense of the folded shape of it. A quilt pieced together out of countless triangles and diamonds of different fabrics, he could see even before she began to unfold it, a starburst pattern done mostly in shades of green and brown.

She smiled and ran her hand across it. "My mother and I made this. Many of the fabrics are from old dresses of hers, thing she brought from Antiva. This copper with the black embroidery was from the skirt of her wedding dress; this light green was a gift from a patron. This bronze was from her favourite day-dress to wear while serving her first employer in Kirkwall; a gift of a dress that the woman had outgrown. It's real silk," she said. "And this dark moire green was from a dress of mine when I was a young girl, that she'd pieced together out of a stained underskirt that she'd rescued from the rag bag; also silk," she explained, then looked at him, seeming a touch worried. "Do you mind if we use it here? It has many memories for me, but I would understand if you would rather not, since it was also on the bed I shared with my previous husband..."

He smiled and shook his head. "I don't mind. I am honoured that you're willing to let me use it as well."

She smiled at him, looking happy. "Help me to carry it in?" she asked, and he did; not that she needed the help, it as lighter than its volume suggested, but it was bulky and easier with two, and getting it placed on the bed when they had to stand at the foot and lean precariously forward led to more smiles, and a giggle from Myra when she leaned too far and he had to catch her. Her waist was firm and warm in his hands, and as she straightened she turned to face him, and it seemed perfectly natural to kiss her again. A much longer kiss than they'd shared before, a kiss that was question and answer both – did they suit each other? Yes, so far.

Her cheeks were pleasantly flushed and a few hairs loose from her ponytail when they returned to the main room. "Let me make tea," she said, "And then we can talk."

He nodded, and took a seat at the table, watching as she fetched more things from her trunk; a tea set, very old, of fine porcelain decorated with Dalish motifs. A couple of tins, one of which contained tea, and the second of which she put on the table near him and opened, revealing that it was full of hard-baked cookies of various kinds. The tea, when she served it, proved to be a blend he'd never had before, with a strong flavour and a smokey aftertaste that he wasn't at first sure if he liked or not, and then decided that he did. It went well with the cookies, only some of which were sweet.

They talked, then, about their pasts – hesitantly at first, and then with growing confidence, as they shared stories with each other about their childhoods, their teen years, the dreams they'd had, the dreams they'd fulfilled, or given up on, or were still working on. She was easy to talk to, he decided, and he liked her smile, and the way she'd look at him while doing something – pouring more tea, picking another cookie out to nibble on – and trying to make it seem that she _wasn't_ looking.

In late afternoon she closed the cookie tin and cleared away the tea set. She carefully washed and dried it and found room to put it away, while he peeled and chopped turnips and parsnips. They had those for their dinner, boiled and mashed with butter and served with fried sausages, and shared the cleaning up after. She did the washing while he dried and put away, and as darkness fell they retired to their bedroom. The quilt gave the small room a richness of colour it had been lacking. They undressed, both very self-consciously, and dressed in clean nightshirt and nightgown before climbing into bed together.

He couldn't help a brief smile, remembering that the last person he'd shared the bed with had been Oswyn, and how he'd joked about it being difficult to explain the human's presence if he was still there when Varel's bride arrived. And was thankful that such had _not_ come to pass.

They both lay there for several minutes, on their sides, studying each other. It was Myra that broke the silence first, an amused smile twisting her lips. "Well. You know I have been married before, and am not unfamiliar with the pleasures of the marriage bed. And you?"

Varel blushed. "I've not much experience at all," he said, deciding truth was best. "A camp follower or two, a visit to a brothel once with some of the other mercenaries. Enough to at least know how the bits fit together," he said, startling a laugh out of her. He liked her laugh, he decided, as least as much if not more than her smile.

"Well then... if you don't mind me making some suggestions, why don't we see about making our bits fit," she said, and laughed again at the snorting sound he made.

It went very well between them after that, and he felt quite content in the wife fate – and Alarith – had found for him, by the time they curled up together and slept, happy and sated.


	25. Chapter 25

Oswyn had arrived home from Varel's wedding to find a message from Anora waiting for him, asking if he'd be free to join her for dinner the next day. He quickly penned an affirmative reply, and sent one of his guards off to deliver it to the castle, then spent much of the evening picking out a suitable outfit for the next day, and inspecting it for any little tears or stains.

He slept in the next morning, and woke feeling well-rested and in a very good mood, looking forward to dinner with Anora that evening, and still feeling pleased over Varel's wedding the day before. He frittered away most of the morning writing a letter to his father about it, and saying that he was enjoying his visit to the city enough that he'd likely remain at least another week longer before returning home. He put the letter aside to seal and send later, had his lunch, sat reading in the garden for a while, then went off to have a very thorough bath before dressing for dinner, both of which required that he make use of the services of Peter, the manservant he'd brought from home.

It proved to be very trying for both of them. He supposed, in retrospect, that it might have been easier on Peter if the man had seen at least some of his scars before, rather then being confronted with the full extent of them all in one go. His first reaction was to stare, which Oswyn hated, and then once he realized what he was doing he tried to keep from looking at them at all, which was even worse. Peter also found it difficult to bring himself to touch them, which made it rather difficult for him to help with things like scrubbing Oswyn's back or drying him properly afterwards, neither tasks Oswyn could easily do for himself.

Oswyn judged that they were both feeling about equally upset by the whole process once it was finally over with, and he was safely covered in his good clean clothes. He thanked Peter politely, and only once the door was closed and locked allowed his own reaction to surface for a few minutes, sitting down on the bed and weeping in angry humiliation, a pillow pressed to his face to catch the tears and muffle any sounds he might make. After which he needed to go put cold water on his eyes, and just sit and think about happier things – like the wedding the day before – until his composure was what it should be.

The walk to the castle calmed his nerves further, even if walking by the ruins of the Arl of Denerim's estate was still unsettling. He kept his eyes firmly turned away from the mound of rubble as he and his guards passed it. He was back to being in a reasonably good mood again by the time he'd threaded his way through the maze of guards and protocol at the castle, and was being greeted by Anora just inside the door to her apartments.

"I'm so pleased you were able to come again," she told him, smiling warmly at him. "Hopefully we'll have better luck with having an uninterrupted conversation this time."

Oswyn grinned. "Have you checked the drapes for lurking assassins yet?"

Anora laughed. "Zevran has, thankfully, already returned to Amaranthine with Katy. So we should be safe from _him_ , at least. But come, let us go and sit down somewhere more comfortable to talk."

She led the way through to her sitting room, where wine and goblets were already waiting, and the two of them were soon ensconced in comfortable chairs with drinks in hand.

"My messenger reported that you were out when he delivered my message, yesterday – was that to attend your elven friend's wedding?" she asked.

"Yes, it was," Oswyn said, and then found himself telling her about the whole thing, including his brief conversation with Mother Perpetua and what she'd had to say about most other priests thinking of the elves as little more than beasts.

Anora nodded, a pensive look on her face. "It is unfortunately a failing found not just among the priests of the chantry, but among many of our nobles and commoners as well. I fear it is a bit like a chicken and egg problem; it is hard to tell which came first." She fell silent for a while, then sighed. "I wish there was more I could do to help the elves; after what was done to them by Howe and my father... I owe them. A debt my father accrued, but that I must pay."

She paused, looking unhappy, and continued. "Yet it is not just the elves who are in need just now. So many of the inhabitants of Denerim are still without proper housing, and they would react poorly to anything that they would perceive as being preference given to the elves over themselves. I cannot afford to have the population of the capital rioting; things are still far too fragile for such an occurrence. Especially with another Landsmeet fast approaching, and my nobles pushing for me to remarry and bear an heir to the throne. Between keeping them and the chantry both satisfied, I find it difficult to move forward on the projects that I know _must_ be tackled to keep Ferelden strong, and able to protect our own borders."

"You believe Orlais is still a danger then."

"Yes. I cannot believe otherwise, knowing how many chevaliers they tried to introduce to the country under the guise of an escort for Grey Wardens. Only a token force of wardens, and a great army of knights," she said, looking grim. "More, Katy tells me that she has received evidence that the First Warden was playing politics during the Blight; he sought in part to punish Ferelden for our long exclusion of the Grey Wardens following their treachery against the crown. She also believes, but has been unable to confirm as yet, that he used his prevention of aid reaching us from other Grey Warden establishments abroad for some sort of political gain with the Orlesians – a trade-off of some kind."

"That... is worrisome," Oswyn agreed, slowly. He'd never paid much attention to politics beyond the borders of Ferelden – other than the perennial problem of Orlais, that is – but that a foreign dignitary would see fit to use Ferelden's peril during the Blight Year for political advantage – that was certainly troubling. Angering, even, that anyone would dare.

Anora frowned. "We are far from the Anderfels, and in the First Warden's opinion are likely a small, distant country of no real significance other than being the birthplace of Andraste. With the chantry being so heavily based in Orlais, he likely feels, as they do, that we should be a part of Orlais. But come, enough of politics beyond Ferelden; it is of politics _within_ Ferelden I am currently most concerned about."

"The nobles," Oswyn said.

Anora smiled. "Yes, the nobles. Particularly the nobles of the bannorn, who have always been a bastion of conservative thought." Before she could speak further, a bell tinkled from elsewhere in the apartment. Anora's smile widened slightly. "But it is time to eat," she said, and rose to her feet, waiting for Oswyn to rise as well and then setting her hand on his arm so that he could escort her the short distance to the dining room.

Oswyn saw her into her seat before taking his own, after which the servants served the meal; a soup of cream and mushrooms to start, served with small buttery rolls of freshly-baked bread. That was followed by a large chicken baked in a crust of salt and cracked peppercorns, potatoes with butter and rosemary, and steamed greens dotted with sauteed onions and bits of crisp bacon. Only once that had been served and the servants had withdrawn from the room again did Anora finally return to the topic of their interrupted conversation. "You talked briefly with Arl Wulff the other day, as I recall," she said, looking at him questioningly. "Did he explain to you why he was here?"

"Yes. That he had come to bring you word of his choice of wife, as he planned to remarry."

Anora smiled. "Yes. Gallagher is just one of many of my nobles that is facing the problem of a lack of suitable heirs; our noble houses lost so many members during the occupation, and then so many more during the Blight, particularly in the south to darkspawn, and the northwest to both treachery and the civil war. Many of our highest families are down to a scant handful of members; Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan, for instance, Connor being unable to inherit. Arl Wulff, Teryn Fergus, Arlessa Katy... my own Terynir of Gwaren, which I am still Teryna for. Many of the bannorns are down to a single heir, as well – look at yourself and your father as another example of such. The problem of heirs is endemic to much of our country – as things currently stand, it would be frighteningly easy for Orlais to wipe out most of our remaining nobility. The line of Calenhad is down to a handful of threads."

She frowned and speared some greens, staring thoughtfully at them for a long moment before putting her fork back down again. "I have been forced to take the unusual step of formally requesting many of my unwed or widowed nobles to marry or remarry, and procreate, any who are still capable of it. Including your father," she added, looking up from her plate to Oswyn, blue eyes remarkably calm. "My letter to him went out several days ago. He is far from being too old to father additional children, and Ferelden _desperately_ needs more children of our best nobles – not just best as in high in standing or bearing the blood of Calenhad, but _best_ as in those lines who have most consistently done what was best for Ferelden over what was best for themselves. The family lines that therefore suffered the worst under the Orlesians, loosing most of their members to execution or death on the battlefield while families who chose to co-operate with the invaders _prospered_..." She broke off, and drew a deep breath, visibly calming herself. "The subject makes me heated. Many of the nobles who give me the most difficulties are those whose families risked little during the occupation, and lost few if any during the Blight. They think of their own advancement and aggrandizement first, and the needs of Ferelden second, if at all."

"The Bannorn," Oswyn said.

"Largely there, yes, though such nobles are to be found throughout Ferelden," she said, and picked up her fork, then set it down again. "I must marry and bear heirs as well. For political reasons, it would be wisest for me to marry someone who carries the blood of Calenhad. That gives me a very small pool of suitable candidates. And as short on heirs as many of my highest nobles already are, it would also be best if I marry someone who is not the sole possible heir to their terynir, arling, or bannorn, which rules out almost all of the most suitable candidates. Oswyn... do you see where I am going with this?"

His mouth was dry. He could see all too clearly. "I am my father's only child," he said slowly.

"Yet he is not too old to father more, and I have asked him to consider remarrying and doing so," Anora said, voice soft but very intense. "Oswyn, we have long been friends. My choices are so few... and you are the best among them, not just by blood, which I would judge fine even if you had not a single drop of Calenhad's blood in you, but _best_ in terms of honour and loyalty. I would far rather marry a friend I can trust than a stranger whose motives I must ever suspect."

A silence fell. Oswyn stared down at his plate, considering her words. Considering how much he'd come to dread the very idea of ever wedding, of having to display his ruined body to some innocent young bride...

"I do not ask that you tell me yes or no right now..." Anora began.

Oswyn, for once in his life, was rude. He raised a hand, cutting her off. He blinked a few times, swallowing heavily. When he spoke, his voice was harsh with suppressed emotions. "I will agree to think on it. But I would not... I would not have you marry me without being aware of the full extent of my injuries," he said, and forced himself to look up and meet her eyes. "They are terrible."

She met his gaze calmly, unflinchingly. After a long moment, she nodded, once. "Very well. Would you prefer to show me now, or at another time?"

It took him two tries to speak. "Now, before my courage fails me," he said shakily. He had to look away then, and close his eyes for a moment. "Do you wish a witness, so there can be... no suggestion of anything untoward between us?"

"No," she said, voice gentle. "Unless you yourself prefer one."

He shook his head. "Where?" he asked, looking back at her again.

She tipped her head slightly to one side. "My private study," she said finally. "It is not as intimate as my bedroom would be. And the door locks," she added with a slight smile, then rose to her feet. Oswyn rose as well, and she led the way to her study, where she closed and locked the door, closed the drapes, and then took a seat – not behind the desk there, but in one of a group of chairs near the fireplace, turning herself so that she was not facing toward him. "When you are ready," she said quietly.

He nodded, even though she could not see it, then undressed, hanging each item of clothing over the back of a chair. He debated for some little time over whether or not to remove his leggings and socks, and then in the end removed everything. Let her see it all; let her see the worst of it. "I am ready," he said at last, voice cracking. As she began to rise, he abruptly closed his eyes, not wanting to see whatever her initial reaction was.

There was a very long silence. He realized he was holding his breath, and forced himself to resume normal breathing, or at least as normal as he was currently capable of. He heard the faint scuff of her slippered feet against the carpet as she walked closer, then began to circle around him. She stopped briefly, behind him, then continued on again, back around to the front of him. "You may re-dress," she said calmly. "If you would, please leave your shirt off for now. I would like to examine some of your injuries more closely, if I may, but the, err... complete nakedness is rather distracting," she said, an edge of humour creeping into her voice.

The humour almost undid him; the lack of repulsion or distaste, the _acceptance_ that it implied. When he opened his eyes she was still standing nearby, facing away again with one hand resting on the back of a nearby chair. He dressed hurriedly – or at least as hurriedly as his injuries allowed, which when it came to things like pulling on stockings and leggings was not particularly fast. "I am decent again," he said when he was done.

She turned back to face him again, blushing somewhat as she met his eyes, then to his surprise stepped close and took his hand in both of hers. "If I ever had any doubt before that you are a brave man, it is entirely gone now," she said, and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. "Not for having endured what you have, which was forced on you, but for being brave enough to show me the extent of it. Come, sit down with me," she said, and gestured for him to sit down in a nearby chair. Once he'd reluctantly taken a seat, well-aware that protocol said she should sit first, she dragged a chair over and sat down beside him but facing him, leaning forward to look at his arm. She reached out, stopping with fingers a short distance from his skin. "May I handle you?" she asked, voice carefully neutral.

He nodded, and she took his arm in hand, guiding him into lifting it up while she studied it, frowning at the scars that dappled the skin around his elbow and shoulder, touching fingertips briefly to the scars that circled his wrist. "Can you bend and lift your arm?" she asked.

"Yes, but not far. Not without pain," he said, and flexed his arm through its limited range of motion, at least as much as he could while seated. She reached out again, setting hand to one of the thick scars that restricted the stretch of his muscles. "This did not heal this way naturally," she said.

"No," he admitted, and had to pause for a long moment again before explaining. "I was kept bound at times, so I couldn't move, so that things would heal awry from what they might have otherwise. And he had a mage who he would sometimes use to heal me faster, so that he..." he broke off, unable to explain further.

Anora frowned darkly. "A terrible perversion of what should be beneficial magic," she said, then leaned down to examine his elbow again. "When you were recovering afterwards, did your father ever have a healer in to try and ease any of these?" she asked, setting a finger carefully on one of the scars.

"No. There were no mages available."

She sat back, looking thoughtful. "Katy has recruited a healing mage or two since the Blight Year. With your permission, I'd like to write to her and ask her to loan us one. I cannot guarantee anything, but I think some of this might be capable of... well, not being healed or removed entirely, but at least made less restrictive, and hopefully less painful as well. Will you permit me to do so?"

He drew a deep breath, blinking back tears. "Any help that would make the scars any less debilitating than they are, I would gladly accept, save it came from a demon."

Anora smiled, amused. "I will write her, then," she said, and rose to her feet, walking determinedly over to her desk. "Put your clothes to rights, and then we will go have our dessert, and perhaps a good stiff drink."

He nodded, and rose to his feet as well. Getting his shirt back on wasn't too difficult, but he struggled with the jacket, until she abruptly rose and walked over, and helped him into it, doing up the buttons and smoothing down the lapels. It felt strangely more intimate than being naked and then half-dressed in front of her had.

It was only much later that evening, while walking home again, that he realized why; she'd done it so efficiently, as if it was something she'd done countless times before. And likely she had, for Cailan.


	26. Chapter 26

Varel rolled over and opened his eyes, then smiled to see Myra lying on her side facing him, eyes already opened. She smiled too, and they both rolled closer to each other, close enough to exchange a warm kiss. "Who's turn to cook breakfast?" he asked, leaning his forehead against hers.

"Yours, I think," Myra said, smile widening.

"Didn't I cook breakfast yesterday?" he asked, then stole another kiss.

"Yes, but I'm better at suppers than you are. You do breakfasts, I'll do suppers."

"Sounds fair to me," Varel agreed, and kissed her a third time before sitting upright, folding the sheets and quilt aside – burying Myra under the pile of them – and sliding out the foot of the bed. Myra laughed, flipped the extra bedding back to his side of the bed, and sat up as well, watching appreciatively while Varel dressed. The bedding being down around her waist, he eyed her back just as appreciatively, and half-crawled onto the bed to kiss her yet again before finally leaving the room.

Married life, Varel considered as he sliced bacon and started it frying, was a very fine invention. It certainly agreed with him so far anyway, but then he'd been lucky enough to get married to a very fine wife. It had felt rather odd their first full day together, full of awkward silences and nervous looks from both sides, but by the second day it felt entirely natural to look up and see Myra there.

She'd unpacked more odds and ends from her chest – mainly little decorative items, clearly treasured possessions – and spread them around, sometimes studying the room for an hour before getting out some new item. A colourful braided rag rug that went on the floor at the foot of their bed, a small framed embroidered sampler she hung in the main room, well away from grease and soot of the kitchen area, a set of brightly glazed earthenware canisters for the kitchen, some colourful pillows she spread around on anything that could be used as a seat, other bits and pieces. Bit by bit their rooms felt more like a home.

Myra emerged from their room, wearing a simple dress of plain undyed cloth under a long sleeveless vest of dark green, as Varel was putting breakfast on the table – leftover potatoes diced up and fried with bacon and onions. They talked over breakfast, not about anything special, just talking a little more about their childhoods and what their parents had been like, favourite foods, the chance of the weather remaining fine all day. Varel found himself thinking how much he liked Myra's smile – and how often she smiled – and then realized that he'd had a smile on his own face pretty much ever since waking up.

They went shopping together after breakfast, walking hand-in-hand through the marketplace where they picking up some cheap fabric for curtains, and some dried fruit and spices Myra wanted so she could make a sweet bun that, she said, was a favourite of hers. They were also lured in by the delicious smells of a vendor's cart, and bought some deep-fried balls of heavily spiced coarsely ground yellow peas, hot and fragrant, that they ate with their fingers, standing off to one side so as not to block traffic.

A little later they came across a second-hand wooden box-bench of age-darkened wood at one of the stalls, more than large enough for two to sit on. It was very plain, with just a little simple carving along the top edge of the back of it, and Myra was clearly much taken with it. Varel hemmed and hawed over the price for a while, but then the shopkeeper lowered it another two gold and he decided it was worth it. He'd have to tip a group of Alarith's friends rather well to get it carried all the way up to their place, but it would look very handsome in their main room, and the extra storage it would give them was much-needed. He paid the shopkeeper, and sent a runner off to the alienage to ask Alarith to hire a few men to deliver it to his rooms for him. While he waited for them to arrive, Myra went off to explore a nearby shop that carried wool and thread and other such notions.

After he'd seen the bench safely off on its way to the alienage, he followed after Myra, and found her scrutinizing skeins of finely spun wool. She spent a few minutes in conversation with the shopkeeper while he waited, and was shown some much smaller skeins from the back of the shop, which she examined closely and fingered a strand of before regretfully shaking her head. The shopkeeper fetched out a small batt of carded wool next, which Myra also examined closely, then smiled and thanked the shopkeeper, before buying a few skeins of wool dyed a deep indigo blue. Varel followed her back out.

"You didn't find what you were looking for?" he asked.

"No. She has some very nice wools, certainly more than adequate for most purposes, but to knit a lace shawl of the kind I can make requires a particularly fine and soft wool. The batt she showed me is almost fine enough, and if I can't find the proper wool here I'll try it, but... well, I'd prefer to find the proper wool. It makes such a difference in the completed piece, and as much work as they are to make, I'd prefer to have the right wool and be able to sell them at the top price."

"And the blue wool?" Varel asked.

Myra smiled. "I want to make you a sweater. And you looked so fine in that blue shirt you wore yesterday."

Varel smiled and blushed a little. The shirt was another of Oswyn's castoffs, and again something he was quite pleased to own, it being of finely dyed silk with hardly a sign of wear on it.

They arrived back at their rooms to find a messenger waiting on the landing outside their door. "Said a reply was expected, and paid for it both ways," the runner said as he handed over the folded paper. "I'll wait here."

Varel nodded, and led Myra inside. Their bench had been delivered, and was set up along the wall under one of the windows, where it would catch the light. While Myra busied herself fetching a clean rag to rub it down with, Varel opened and read the note. "It's from my friend Oswyn," he told her. "He says he knows it's short notice, but would we be free to join him for supper tonight. And if not tonight, then would tomorrow be fine. What do you think?"

"Tonight?" she said, and paused for a moment. "Why not. It's not like we have anything else planned."

Varel grinned and fetched his inkwell and pen, quickly scribbling a brief reply at the foot of the note where some blank parchment remained, refolded it, and took it out to the waiting runner, handing it over with a few pennies as a tip. The runner grinned and nodded, and ran off, and Varel went back inside.

Myra was digging in her chest again, and came out with a blanket knitted of some thick varicoloured wool, its fibres a mix of shades from cream to light brown, which she draped over the back and seat of the bench. It looked well against the dark brown wood, and even better when she moved several of her pillows to either end of the bench.

"We should wash and dress if we're visiting Oswyn," Varel told her. "Dress well."

"Because he's human?" Myra asked, a touch suspiciously.

Varel grinned. "No. Because I want to show you off," he said, and kissed her.

Myra laughed. "If we're going to bathe you need to fetch extra water," she told him. "We're almost out."

Varel nodded, and picked up their water bucket, pouring what was left in it into a pot for Myra to warm up, then headed off downstairs to go fetch more from the well. When he returned they picked out clothing while the water warmed, then sponge-bathed together in the kitchen, using the nicely scented soaps Varel had bought before their marriage. Myra, he'd been pleased to find out, liked the scent of lilacs very much, and was pleased that he'd thought of such a simple but appreciated gift as good soap.

She put on a dress he hadn't seen before, of a dark coppery brown shade trimmed with black cord, and draped a lace shawl around her shoulders. Not the large white one she'd worn at their wedding, but a smaller one of cream-coloured wool of an even lacier texture. Varel, meanwhile, dressed in leggings of dark brown suede and a cream-coloured linen tunic, belting it in with the embossed belt from the vest he'd worn at their wedding. They looked very fine together, he thought.

It was only after they'd set out for Oswyn's house that Varel realized he'd never mentioned to Myra that Oswyn was nobility. For a moment he considered not forewarning her, imagining what her reaction would be... but prudence won out. "I should warn you," he said, as they left the alienage by the southern gate rather than the market bridge. "Oswyn isn't just any human. He's part of the Ferelden nobility."

Myra gave him a surprised look. "Really? He didn't seem in the least snobbish."

Varel smiled. "He's a good man. And a friend," he said, and gave her a brief explanation of how they'd come to meet, which filled in the time as they walked through the city to where the townhouses and estates of the nobility were. He had to stop and ask a patrolling guardsman where the Aylridge townhouse was, having never been there before, and was relieved to find that it wasn't one of the very large and grand ones. Friend or no friend, he'd have found it intimidating to approach one of them. As it was, he had to steel himself somewhat to go knock on the front door instead of looking around back for the servant's entrance, and felt rather self-conscious standing there waiting for the door to open.

It was a human servant that opened it, an older plain-faced woman who smiled with surprising warmth at him. "You must be the young master's friend," she said. "He said you'd be coming by. Come in, he's in his study," she said, and led them off down the hallway to a room at the back.

Oswyn was seated at a desk, staring off into space. He looked around as they entered, and smiled happily, rising quickly to his feet. "Varel! And Myra. I'm so glad you could come today. Thank you for showing them in, Janie – ask cook for some tea and so forth for us, will you?" he said.

The woman nodded. "Of course, ser," she said, and turned and left again, shutting the door behind her.

It was a very pleasant room, Varel couldn't help but notice, larger than the main room of his apartment and panelled in polished wood, with inset bookshelves at intervals and a large stone-mantled fireplace, and a number of framed paintings on the walls, mostly landscapes. The rug on the floor was as thick and soft as a sheared fleece, and patterned with vines and foliage with animals here and there – a fox peering out of a bush, a rabbit curled up under a leafy fern, a mouse crouched under a curving length of vine. The furniture was all dark wood, all richly upholstered in warm brown leather. Tall windows lined the wall across from the desk, overlooking a small walled garden in back of the townhouse and flooding the room with sunshine. Myra's eyes were wide with surprise and wonder as she looked around, and Varel knew his own would be as large if he hadn't already been exposed to the castle that was Oswyn's usual home.

Oswyn saw them seated on a loveseat, and settled himself in an armchair adjacent to it. "I'm glad you were able to come today," he repeated, smiling at them both. "How are you finding Denerim, now that you've had a few days here?" he asked Myra.

"Pleasant, from what little I've seen of it. Much cooler than Kirkwall, which I expected. And so much cleaner – the foundries in Kirkwall leave soot and ash everywhere. It falls out of the sky like snow on the worst days, when the winds are wrong and the smoke is not being carried away from the city like it usually is."

Janie bustled back in, carrying a large tea tray, and set it down on a low table nearby, bobbed her head at Oswyn, and left again. "Will you pour?" he asked Myra politely.

Myra smiled and nodded, and moved forward in her seat so she could easily reach the tray, checking the pot before beginning to pour out cups of tea for each of them, asking Oswyn what he took in his and serving him before putting together cups for Varel and herself, whose preferences she already knew. They were soon all settled again with tea and little plates of thin almond cookies. Oswyn asked Myra more about what she'd seen of Denerim so far – not much, just glimpses on the way from the docks to the alienage, a few locations within the alienage itself, and the Denerim market. Then he spent some time asking her about what Kirkwall was like, not just the city itself but the alienage, and what conditions the elves there lived in. He listened well, and asked further questions, but Varel got the impression that Oswyn was distracted by something; he wasn't entirely sure just what gave him that idea. Perhaps just how quiet Oswyn himself was, when normally he was much more talkative. Still, Varel could see that Myra was enjoying herself talking with Oswyn, and that made him happy.

Eventually Janie returned, looking in the door to say that the food was ready, and did Oswyn wished it served now, or held.

"Served now, I think," Oswyn said, and rose to his feet, offering Myra his arm. She smiled, looking very pleased, and allowed him to guide her to the nearby dining room, Varel following along behind and smiling in amusement. In the dining room he took over and helped her into her seat while Oswyn carefully lowered himself into his own, then Varel took the remaining seat.

The table was beautifully but simply set, with a low centrepiece of foliage and flowers flanked by lit candles, and plates of fine white earthenware decorated around the edge with a pattern of stars and vines. Varel noticed Myra glancing at his belt and her eyebrows rising slightly, and guessed she must have just made the connection between his possession of such finery, and his friendship with Oswyn. Their meal had been served – thin slices of roast beef with a mushroom and cream gravy, florettes shaped of mashed root vegetables, and sauteed leeks – before they resumed talking.

"That's a beautiful shawl, Myra," Oswyn said. "It's an Antivan ring shawl, isn't it?"

Myra smiled warmly at him. "Yes. Though this one is not actually from Antiva; my mother knew the craft, and taught it to me."

Oswyn's face lit up with real interest. "Really! This is one you made yourself, then?"

"Yes, it is."

"And the large one you wore at your wedding? That was one as well, wasn't it?"

Myra's smile widened. "Yes. Though that one was a gift from my mother, years ago."

"Do they both pass the ring test?" he asked interestedly.

"Of course," she said. "Though the white one only just barely passes it."

"The ring test?" Varel asked, puzzled.

Oswyn grinned. "May I?" he asked Myra. She nodded, and took off her shawl, handing it to him. Oswyn drew a ring off his finger – his signet ring – and slipped one corner of the shawl through it, then pulled. The entire shawl slid easily through the ring, the fine wool threads easily bunching up closely enough that even the greatest width of it passed through the ring without difficulty. Oswyn delicately shook it out again, and present it back to Myra, both of them looking very pleased by his performance.

She slipped it back around her shoulders, then turned to Varel. "The same can be done even with my large shawl, though for that more care must be taken; you have to slip the full end of the shawl through to start, not just a corner, so that you're never trying to pull the corner-to-corner width of it through, just the side-to-side. Corner-to-corner is more strands at once, you understand."

Varel nodded. "I see! And that's very impressive!"

"It is," Oswyn agreed, then turned back to Myra. "And you knit them yourself?" Oswyn asked again. "Where do you get the wool?"

"My mother imports it from Antiva," Myra said. "Through contacts she has there – she was born and raised in Antiva. I've heard the breed of goats that produce the wool can only be found in two places, on the heights of the White Spire in northern Antiva, which is snow-capped year round and is cold enough for the particular breed, and here in Ferelden. The latter actually being part of why I chose to move here when the opportunity came up; if I can obtain the wool for less here than it costs me in Kirkwall, I can produce the shawls for less cost to myself, and greater profit. Though I have yet to actually locate any of the correct wool here."

Oswyn was grinning again. "That would be because my family exports all of what we produce of it each spring to Antiva, there currently being no local market for it," he said, sounding pleased with himself, and even a touch smug. "Dragon's Peak bannorn is one of two places in Ferelden I know of that have herds of the right goat, the other being one of the bannorn along the foothills of the Frostback Mountains in the west, I forget offhand which one; they'd only just started their first herd before the Blight began, I'd have to ask my father to know if they've been successful with wool production yet or not. But if you're interested in the wool, I can certainly see that some is made available for you... assuming you spin it yourself? I'm afraid we don't do that part – the goats are just brushed each spring, the wool cleaned and carded into batts, then it's packed up and sent north."

Myra was smiling very widely now, and looking extremely pleased at the turn of events. "Yes, I do my own spinning," she confirmed. "My spindle is one of the things I brought with me. I use it to spin the goat wool into a very fine thread, then ply it with silk thread for strength. And once I've made enough thread I can knit a shawl; one like this takes half a month to knit," she said, touching one hand to her shoulder. "The large size takes a month or more, depending on the patterns used."

"And they sell for a very high price, as a result," Oswyn said, nodding understandingly. "A friend of mine purchased one as a wedding gift for his bride; I remember Fergus telling us how expensive it was, because of their rarity," he said, then smiled at Varel. "That's a very valuable skill your wife has."

Varel grinned. They resumed eating, Oswyn still talking mostly with Myra, asking further questions about her craft. Varel enjoyed the meal, and enjoyed seeing that there seemed to be a tentative friendship forming between his friend and his wife. They were on their dessert – a tall cake rich with beaten eggs and butter, and tasting of spice and lemon peel, served with a puree of tart red berries – before Oswyn finally ended his conversation with Myra and turned to Varel. "How has your search for work been going?" he asked.

Varel blushed, and glanced at Myra. "I haven't had time to do any further looking since last week," he admitted. "Preparing for the wedding and everything."

Oswyn grinned. "I understand. Well... I've been thinking of asking if you'd consider taking employment with me," he said, then flushed a little and looked down at his plate, clearly feeling a bit uncomfortable. "I've realized I need proper help. Not just a guard or manservant, but someone to be... well, it's complicated. It's more than just a simple servant I need. Someone who can accompany me, perhaps serve as my secretary, as my social obligations may be about to increase considerably. And can also double as my bodyguard, since I'm unable to defend myself properly if the need arises. Someone who'll prod me to eat when I should and see I don't just lie in bed all day feeling sorry for myself. And, yes, someone to help in the role of a body servant at times, who isn't..." he stopped and swallowed, glanced uncertainly at Myra, then drew a deep breath and continued. "Someone who isn't distressed or repulsed by my scars. I need someone who's a companion, as much as a servant. I don't want you to think I'm trying to buy your friendship," he added hastily, finally meeting Varel's eyes again. "I hope I have that anyway, and I don't want you to think that my friendship and interest is contingent on whether or not you'll agree to work for me. It's just you're the first person that came to mind when I began thinking of what I needed, this morning. You've got all the qualifications I need, with the added bonus of being someone I think of as a trusted friend, of which I have very few left."

Varel drew a breath, but Oswyn kept talking. "Don't answer right away. Give it some thought; talk it over with your wife," he said, looking again to Myra. "Nor is my offer of access to our wool contingent on Varel coming to work for me," he added, then turned back to Varel again. "But I'd need you near me a lot of the time, if you agree, and that would mean you living here, in this house, or wherever else I might come to live. Which could either be a room just for you, or a small apartment for both of you, if you liked. And I'd need you accompanying me when I travel, though that at least is likely to remain within Ferelden. It would be a lot of change for you."

Varel smiled when it was clear that Oswyn had finally wound down completely. "I'll think it over, and discuss it with Myra," he agreed, though he was already thinking his most likely answer would be yes, unless Myra had some strenuous objection to the idea. And judging by the look of suppressed excitement on her face, she liked the idea. He was already thinking of several advantages to it, over seeking a position as a mercenary again; less chance of ending up dead, for one. Even if they lived separately, there'd likely be far more chances to spend time with his wife, a prospect he found increasingly attractive now that he'd had experience of married life. And he'd wanted out of the alienage, if possible, and what could be more _out_ than being a live-in servant to a man whose residences included a Denerim townhouse and a countryside castle, and likely other properties as well? He liked Oswyn, which didn't hurt at all, and while he'd never been particularly interested in being in a menial position, the job Oswyn was offering was far more than just a mere servant. Secretary, bodyguard, manservant, companion... it sounded _interesting_ , certainly more so than being a mercenary had ever been.

After the meal they took a walk through the garden, Myra and Varel walking arm in arm while Oswyn walked alongside them, leaning on his cane and pointing out particular features and being charming, which he did quite well. It was getting late and the sky already darkening by the time they finally left; Oswyn insisted on sending for a carriage to bring them back to the alienage gate, paying the driver himself as they climbed in.

"What do you think?" Varel asked as the carriage pulled away.

Myra smiled and tucked her hand into his arm, leaning close. "I liked him," she said, and looked thoughtful. "He seems lonely. I think you should take the job."

"Just because he seems lonely?" Varel asked, raising an eyebrow in amusement.

She laughed, and hit him lightly on the arm. "No! Because it's a very good job he's offering, by the sound of it. And I liked him. And you like him."

"I do," Varel agreed. "And I can think of more than a few good reasons to tell him yes, anyway, so it's good you like the idea too. I'll send him a note some time tomorrow, asking to sit down with him and talk it over in more detail first. Like finding out what he sees the job as involving, in more detail, and what the pay would be. Do you like the idea of living in rooms in a townhouse like that, or would you rather live in the alienage?"

"I don't really know. I've had so little experience of the Denerim alienage so far... I do like our place though. I don't know... we'll have to think it over. Though I _do_ like the idea of living in such a fine house! I wonder what the servants quarters there are like."

Varel smiled at her enthusiasm. "I'll have to ask and see."

* * *

_Note – the “ring shawls” described actually exist; they're called[Orenburg shawls](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orenburg_shawl) and are made in the Orenburg area of Russia from the down hair of Orenburg goats – their hair is said to the the thinnest in the world, in part due to a combination of diet and the extremely cold conditions they're raised in. The wool is knit into lacey shawls that develop a rather cobweb-like downy appearance with wear. And because of the thinness of the handspun wool threads, it is indeed a test of them that [they can be pulled through a ring](http://kloobok.blogspot.ca/2010/10/orenburg-shawl.html), a rather fairy-tale like test of fineness._


	27. Chapter 27

Oswyn was still standing in the front hall after seeing Varel and Myra off, considering whether to retire for the night or return to the study, when he heard a carriage pulling up outside. For a confused moment he thought the elves must have returned for some reason, and then even as he turned back to the door realized he was hearing more than just a single carriage pulling up. And then a familiar voice was raised in command, and he was smiling even before he opened the door to see his father alighting from a small carriage, a larger one behind it already disgorging servants, while a heavily loaded waggon was just pulling to a stop behind it.

"Father!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

Sighard snorted. "I have a suspicion I should be asking _you_ that," he said. "What I'm doing here, I mean. I received the damnedest letter from Queen Anora a couple of days ago," he said, and stopped halfway up the front stairs to give Oswyn a searching look. "You're looking well," he added approvingly.

"Thank you. We'll have to talk – but not on the front stoop," Oswyn said, stepping back into the hallway.

"No, I daresay not," Sighard agreed, climbed the last couple of steps, and turned back for a moment to look to where the guards and servants were already beginning to haul bags and boxes out of and off of the carriages and waggon. He snorted and turned back to Oswyn. "Well, they know what to do, let's leave them to it. I need to visit a convenience, and then a comfortable chair and a good stiff drink. It's been too long in a bumpy carriage since our last stop."

Oswyn grinned. "I'll go ahead to the study and pour us each something then," he suggested. Sighard grunted agreement and clattered off upstairs in search of his rooms and bathing chamber. By the time Oswyn had poured out a couple of brandies, Sighard was back down again. He sank into a chair by the unlit fireplace with a sigh, accepting his snifter of brandy, and watching Oswyn closely as he sat as well. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

Oswyn shrugged. "Good enough. Better than I have in a while, actually."

"Good," Sighard said, smiling, and took a sip of his brandy. "So what's behind this letter from Anora, urging me to remarry?"

"A couple of things, actually," Oswyn said, and explained about the problems Anora was facing from the nobles, how so many of the most loyal families were among the shortest on members, and Anora's fears of what it could mean for the future of Ferelden. Sighard nodded thoughtfully several times, clearly agreeing at least in part with some of her points. "She feels it is vital for Ferelden's future security that the most loyal families – who are almost invariably the lowest in number of members at present – do what they can to breed additional heirs. There are already several holdings that are going to essentially fall vacant when their current holder dies, with only distant cousins at best available for an heir – and not all of those even in Ferelden, with the exodus there was during the Occupation. I think she's right, father... if I slipped and cracked my head open tomorrow, who would there be that you could name as heir? Your cousins somewhere up in the Free Marches?"

Sighard snorted. "If they'd even care. They're rather deeply embroiled in their own local politics, the last I ever heard from that side of the family. Maker! Taking a second bride at my age, though. And a younger one, at that – it would have to be younger, if I'm expected to produce additional little Aylridges. And I loved your mother, you know. I'm not sure I could love a second wife. Not that it's _necessary_ , of course, but I can tell you that it certainly makes things... better," Sighard said, a smile of fond reminiscence briefly crossing his lips. He gave Oswyn a sudden sharp look. "You said a couple of things. I get the feeling all those reasons are just one of them."

"Yes," Oswyn said, and set aside his near-empty glass, crossing his hands in his lap. "Anora has asked me if I'd consider marrying her; as consort, not King."

Sighard froze, staring at him. "Maker's breath," he said after a while, and blinked several times, then suddenly smiled. "I can certainly see why she'd wish me to have additional heirs, in that case. If you're her consort then your own children would have to be committed to the throne first of all."

"Yes, and Gwaren as well, since she's still Teryna of Gwaren. So Dragon's Peak Bannorn would come in third, assuming we even managed to have that many children."

"Would you become Teryn of Gwaren?" Sighard asked.

"I don't know, we haven't really discussed it in detail yet. She only just asked me last night, actually – I've spent most of today trying to finish a letter I was writing to you, trying to think of how to break the news to you and ask your advice. I'm glad you've come," he added, and realized he was; he was very relieved to see his father, and have his direct advice, not separated by distance or the formality of letters and the need to be circumspect in wording.

Sighard smiled. "I take it you're thinking of saying yes?" he asked.

"Yes, I am. I... we're friends, we have been since our childhood. She was always someone I admired, though since she was promised to Cailan I certainly never imagined marrying her myself. And..." he paused, and coloured deeply, lowering his voice. "I wouldn't allow her to ask without having seen my injuries first. Her reaction was... better than I'd expected. Much better."

Sighard's smile deepened. "She's the daughter of a warrior, was the wife and daughter-in-law of other warriors; I'm sure she's seen scars before and is more likely to think of them as a token of battle than a disfiguring flaw. Not scars as bad as what you have to bear, I'm sure, but she's no hothouse flower who'll faint at the mere thought of blood."

Oswyn grinned. "I know. I've seen her hunt game, when we were younger. Blood and guts don't disturb her."

Sighard nodded thoughtfully. "A friendship is a good start to any marriage; more than some manage to obtain. If you decide to say yes, I'm hardly going to stand in your way," he said, and then suddenly laughed. "Imagine! My grandchild the ruler of Ferelden! I'm hardly likely to say _no_ to that!"

He sobered up quickly though, and frowned. "Not that it'll be _easy_ , of course, for either of you. There'll be those who question your fitness to be consort, when you can't even lift a sword. And those who'll say to your face that the only reason you're marrying her is for advancement, or that my wealth bought you her hand in marriage, or similar scurrilous garbage. Are you prepared to deal with that?"

"I don't know," Oswyn said honestly. "I'd already guessed that it will be difficult at times. I'm sure if Anora continues to handle the political side all herself I'll be seen as a parasite, a mere drone, while if I do anything political I'll be seen as a conniving schemer just waiting to plant my own seat on the throne, and everything in between the two, especially to anyone already unhappy about Anora's continued rule. But... I have to agree with her reasoning for why she asked me," he said, and explained her thinking to his father.

Sighard nodded. "She's right; marrying someone with the blood of Calenhad is the surest way to be sure that her own heirs won't face any of the opposition that she herself has had because of her parents' common blood. Not that Loghain was ever a _common_ man, even as a youth," Sighard said, smiling again. "He had an uncanny knack for looking at tangled tactical situations and always finding the one loose thread that needed pulling to make it all unravel. I suspect Anora has inherited some of that skill, given her political sense, though it certainly deserted her for a while after Cailan's death. She should never have let her father make himself regent over her, though I suppose in her grief it seemed the easiest course," he said, and gazed off into the distance for a moment. "I can't claim I did any better myself, when your mother died. Grief affects us all in different ways, and often badly."

Sighard drew a deep breath, then smiled at his son. "Well, it's been a very long day, and I'm quite tired. Why don't we leave any further discussion until tomorrow."

* * *

Oswyn could feel the difference in the house when he woke the next morning; the subtle change brought on by his father being in residence. So many more bodies there – his father's travelling retinue of servants and guards, hostlers and grooms and what-have-you – could not help but make a difference in the house that he could feel even in his small suite of rooms. It changed the sounds of the house; it changed the smells, too, the kitchen already being hard at work to feed the increased numbers. Doubtless the handful of servants he'd brought with him had already resumed their more usual roles within his father's larger household.

He rose and took a hurried sponge-bath, not in need of or wanting to take the length of time required for a full bath, and dressed. Casually, as he had no plans to go out today, the sort of simple loose clothing that he'd been wearing when he'd first met Varel; better than what one of his father's tenants would wear only by virtue of the fineness of the material.

His father was already at table when he reached the dining room, talking to one of his assistants in between bites of food. He dismissed the man as Oswyn took a seat, giving him one of those piercing head-to-toe looks of his before smiling. "I've sent word to the Queen that I'm in town and am hoping to speak with her later today about her recent letter. I'm not the only one, either, I hear Bann Teagan arrived late last night as well, and doubtless he's also on her little list of nobles she's encouraging to marry and procreate." Sighard frowned and sat back in his chair. "You're going to need more servants of your own, boy, whether or not you say yes to her proposal. More than the few you'd brought here."

"I know," Oswyn agreed. "Actually I've asked Varel if he'd consider coming to work for me. I had him over for dinner last night."

"Him and his new wife, yes? I read that partially-written letters of yours this morning," Sighard said.

"Yes, and Myra, his wife. Anyway, I was thinking that he could fill several positions all in one man, rather than me hiring on several different servants each to do different things," he said, and explained to his father the idea of having Varel as his fairly constant companion, doing duty as both bodyguard and secretary, and manservant when required.

"Hmm. It sounds workable to start anyway, though normally a position of such responsibility would go to someone rather higher-born than an elf. But given you're wanting him as a body servant as well, you want someone you're comfortable with most of all, I suppose, and if that's Varel, then people can just live with having their noses put out of joint by it."

They didn't have a chance to discuss it further; Oswyn's servant Janie came into the room just then, looking as calmly unflappable as always, and dipped her head to them. "Pardon me, sers, but there's a pair of Grey Wardens at the door asking for Ser Oswyn. Said to tell you it's Ser Howe and friend."

"Howe!" Sighard exclaimed angrily, sitting bolt upright.

Oswyn hastily grabbed his arm. "It's all right, father – it's just Nate. I've already seen him, he's one of Katy's warden's now, you know. Show them in please, Janie."

She bobbed her head again and left. Sighard was frowning. "Are you sure about this?" he asked.

"Very sure, father – you know Nate and I were friends growing up. I encountered him at the palace last week. Which as you might guess was rather awkward for both of us, but we got past the awkwardness in the end," he said.

Janie reappeared, the two Grey Wardens following her. Nate was in the lead, dressed in a rather disreputable-looking set of black-dyed leathers, only a blue-and-grey griffon badge on the breast betraying his allegiance. He gave a very proper cross-armed salute to both Sighard and Oswyn. "Bann Sighard, Ser Oswyn – sorry to interrupt you at breakfast, but both Queen Anora and my commander insisted that I was to bring... ah, Ser Levyn here to you as directly as possible after reaching the city," he said, and gestured to his companion.

His companion looked like a smaller shadow of himself; similar black hair, grey eyes, and pale skin, anyway, and a hook of a nose that wasn't all that much smaller than Nate's own distinctive Howe beak. But where Nate stood confidently erect, Levyn barely reached his shoulder and seemed hunched in on himself; he stood as if he was trying to hide behind Nate. His outfit of crisp blues and greys looked awkward on him, where Nathaniel somehow managed to make dusty, scuffed leathers seem the only appropriate attire.

"Have you broken your fast yet?" Oswyn asked, suppressing an amused smile. "Please, join us."

Nate grinned. "Don't mind if I do," he said, and strode over to the sideboard to serve himself, Levyn scurrying along in his wake. Janie quickly set two more places at the table, then left again. Nate led Levyn back to the table, and saw him seated beside Oswyn, then settled himself on the other side of him.

"So you're here because of the Queen and Katherine?" Sighard asked once the two were seated.

"Yes," Nathaniel said, glancing up from cutting up his slice of ham. "Queen Anora requested from Katherine the loan of a healing mage, to see if anything could be done to ease Oswyn's injuries," he explained to Sighard, then turned and smiled at Oswyn. "Katy had already had a similar thought by the time we'd got back to Vigil's Keep, and was in the middle of planning how to broach the subject to you when Anora's letter arrived yesterday. At which point she decided nothing would do but I jump right back on my horse and escort Jo.. Levyn directly here to you."

Sighard turned an interested look on Levyn. "You're a mage?" he asked sharply. "And a healer?"

The man looked up from his plate, looking more frightened than anything else. "Yes," he managed to say.

"And a very good one," Nathaniel interjected, drawing Sighard's attention back to himself. "There's more than a few people back at the Keep – wardens and commoners both – who owe their lives to him," he said, and smiled warmly at the man. Levyn looked pleased, and smiled back shyly before returning his attention to his plate. "Anyway, Katy saw us both out the gate within the hour of receiving Anora's letter. We camped overnight in the Wending Woods on the way here, _not_ one of my favourite places to have to make a stop, and then pushed on to Denerim as soon as it was light out, and came straight here."

"How is Katherine?" Sighard asked, and for the rest of breakfast the conversation turned mostly to news and gossip about their fellow nobles, Nathaniel still being well in touch with the news and politics of the day even if technically no longer a noble himself.

"I'll go see that a room is opened up for you and Levyn," Sighard said at the end of the meal. "Do you know how long you'll be staying?"

Levyn finally spoke up for himself. "It will depend on what healing I'm able to do for your son," he said, in an almost surprisingly soft and hesitant voice. "It may take as long as several days of work, before I'm done, if indeed there is anything at all I can do to help."

Sighard nodded. "Well, any help you _can_ give will certainly be much appreciated, by myself as much as by Oswyn. I will see you two later, I hope," he said, as he rose to his feet, nodded to the pair of wardens, and diplomatically withdrew.

Levyn visibly relaxed once he'd left. Nate reached out and patted his shoulder reassuringly. "All right, I suppose we'd better seek out some privacy to start," he said, and looked to Oswyn. "Your rooms?"

"As good a place as any," Oswyn agreed, rising to his feet as well, and waiting for the two wardens to stand. "I'm downstairs at the back now – stairs and I don't get along very well," he said, and led the way off to his suite.


	28. Chapter 28

Oswyn led Nate and Levyn into his suite, closing the door behind them, and walking over to draw the drapes closed before turning back to them. "Do I need to strip entirely, or...?" he asked, looking questioningly at Levyn.

"Just your shirt will be enough for now," the mage said. "I need to be able to examine a sample of your injuries, to determine whether or not there's anything I can do for them, first of all, and if there _is_ something that can be done, to try it and see how difficult it will be."

Oswyn nodded and stripped off his shirt, draping it over a chair and feeling strongly reminded of his interview with Anora two days before, though a lot less nervous. "Standing or sitting?" he asked.

"Standing for now," Levyn said. "Over here where I can walk all the way around you, please."

Oswyn walked forward, and stood stiffly. Unlike his brief interlude in Anora's study, he found that he preferred to keep his eyes open this time. Nathaniel was leaning against the wall by the door, watching Levyn rather than him. The mage walked slowly around Oswyn, studying him intently. Apart from making a hissing sound through his teeth when he saw Oswyn's back, he gave no indication of any particular reaction to the sight of the scars. He seemed much more at ease now, his earlier fear and hesitation gone as he concentrated on the task at hand.

"I'll have to touch you," he said after finishing his circle. Oswyn nodded, and he stepped closer, examining one of Oswyn's arms much as Anora had done, having him flex it and display the range of movement he currently had. Levyn's handling was not as gentle; he pressed his fingers hard against the skin around some of the scars, or directly on some of them, and he asked a lot of questions, about which scars hurt, which ones had little to no sensation, and so forth. He had Oswyn move not just within the limited range where he had little pain, but asked him to force his limbs as far as he could stand against the pain as well, his fingers moving over Oswyn's skin, probing here and there, as Oswyn moved.

"I may be able to at least ease some of these," he finally said, fingers grasping Oswyn's elbow almost painfully hard while he had Oswyn bend his arm back and forth again. "There's a number of problems being caused by all this scarring. Some are relatively easily fixable. Some are not. Some would be very painful to fix and you'll have to decide whether or not you're able and willing to endure what would need to be done to even attempt to right them."

"Could you explain further?" Oswyn asked worriedly.

"Yes. First, sit down – I want to try something on your elbow, and I can do that while we talk," he said. It took them a couple of minutes to arrange seats to Levyn's satisfaction. Nathaniel came over and sat down as well, a slight frown on his face, but said nothing, simply watching as Levyn flexed Oswyn's arm back and forth slightly while fitting his fingertips very carefully around the outside point of Oswyn's elbow.

"You've basically got three types of scars to worry about – four, if we count the merely superficial ones, that don't actually have any ill effect other than appearance," the mage explained. "There are thick, well-healed scars like those under your arm, that restrict the ability of the muscles to stretch. Fixing them would be a painful process; a certain amount can be done just through stretching exercises, but any real loosening of them would require the worst of the scarring to be re-opened and then proper healing allowed to occur over time, with the muscles exorcised regularly. It would be exceedingly painful, and still leave deep scars, simply replacing the existing ones with what would hopefully be more easily pliable ones, and the muscles would still be weaker and have less range than they had before any scarring occurred. I would only recommend it as a last resort."

He drew a deep breath, and a faint glow sprang up around his hands, "Then you have a number of much smaller but deeper scars, mainly from piercing woulds I am guessing, that have damaged and which similarly restrict the movement of the fine muscles and tendons within the joint, as well as torn cartilage and muscles from racking. Some of those things have healed – sometimes badly, making a kind of scar called an adhesion, where tissues that should slide against or across each other are instead bound together, and in some cases the tissues are twisting or pulling painfully as a result. And then you also have areas where the flesh has been unable to heal properly at all, as it's torn and re-torn on a frequent basis just from moving around."

The glow around his hands increased. His eyes were drifting closed, his voice becoming quieter and slightly slurred. "What I'm going to try to do is heal some of the unhealed areas – keep flexing your arm slowly, I need the joint in motion – and then I'm going to try to separate some of the adhesions and heal those properly as well. There may be some discomfort," he added. His eyes were fully closed now; he fell silent, a look of concentration on his face.

Oswyn felt nothing at first other then a faint warmth, deep in the joint. Then an odd prickling sensation, like the pins and needles after a limb that's fallen asleep wakes up again. That lasted for some time, and while Oswyn couldn't be sure, he thought some of the underlying pain had receded a little. He hissed and jerked at a sudden sharp pain in his arm. Levyn's eyes opened again for a moment. "Sorry," he said. "Keep flexing. It's going to hurt more than I thought," he said, and went back to whatever it was that he was doing. There were several equally sharp pains, bad enough to bring tears to Oswyn's eyes and have him stiffening his body and clenching both hands into fists from the effort it took not to cry out. But the pains faded away into the pins-and-needles feeling, and then even that faded away entirely, leaving just the feeling of warmth.

Levyn released his elbow at last and sat back, dabbing sweat off his brow with the back of one wrist. "Sorry, that was rather worse than I thought it would be. How does it feel, compared to your other elbow?"

"Odd. As if it's gone numb," Oswyn said, and cautiously flexed both arms though a matching set of movements, or at least as matching as he could manage, and then suddenly grinned. "It's not numb... it's just not as painful as it used to be. And look, it bends further now too," he said joyfully.

Lewyn grinned. "Let's get the other elbow done," he said, and with Nathaniel's help moved the chair around to the other side. It was just as painful to have that elbow worked on as the first had been, and took even longer to complete. Oswyn was blinking back tears by the time the mage had finished.

The mage was visibly flagging when he'd finished. "Maker, that's hard work," he said, his voice hoarse. "Fresh wounds are pretty easy to heal; old ones like these, and especially scars, they're nasty."

"I think that had better be enough for now," Nathaniel interrupted, frowning in concern at the mage. "You've overdone it – your hands are shaking."

"So they are," the mage said in some surprise, holding them up and watching them tremble.

"I'll be right back," Nathaniel told Oswyn. "Let me just see Levyn off to bed first; he's going to need a long nap and then a very large meal before he's up to anything else."

Oswyn nodded, suddenly feeling surprisingly tired himself – and hungry – and watched Nate shepherd the mage away before finally rising, putting his shirt back on, and ringing for a servant. Peter came to the door within a couple of minutes, and he asked him to have tea and some snacks brought to his rooms, then went back to his chair.

Nate came back just moments after the tea tray had been delivered, and happily helped himself to some of the food while Oswyn poured for both of them. "He's out like a light," Nate said as he settled down in a chair again. "Part of why I've been assigned to keep an eye on him – he has no sense about when he needs to stop and rest, sometimes."

Oswyn grinned. "You looked like a mother hen fussing over it's one chick when you were leading him off," he said, teasingly.

Nate laughed and then grinned. "Katy calls me his mabari. It's all her fault, really, she assigned me to be his mentor when he joined the wardens," he explained, leaning forward to take his cup of tea from Oswyn's hands. "Jowan grew up in the mage tower – there since he was three, until the Blight Year. They were going to make him tranquil instead of Harrowing him, the poor bastard. He panicked, of course, as who wouldn't. Tried to put together an escape plan, which went rather poorly, and ended up cornered, under threat of death, and in a panic. He'd picked up a little knowledge of blood magic somehow, and used it to escape instead – don't worry though, he's no maleficar. Anyway, being Tower-raised he was pretty much completely clueless about the outside world, so as you might guess his escape didn't go very well."

"What happened?" Oswyn asked, before taking a sip of his tea, fascinated.

"Oh, all sorts of things. He blundered about for a while, making every sort of 'hello, newly escaped mage here' mistake you could possibly imagine. I think he was almost relieved when the templars finally caught up with him, until he found out they were dragging him off to Denerim for execution. Only they bumped into some men of my father's who coincidentally were out looking for any apostates they might happen to come across, and ended up in the same dungeon you did instead," Nathaniel said. He sat silently for a long moment, staring down into his untouched tea. "Father tortured most of the templars to death in front of Jowan. Gave him a small taste of it as well, and then made it clear he'd be next unless he did as told, then shipped him off to Redcliffe to poison the Arl."

Oswyn sat bolt upright, almost slopping tea on himself. " _That's_ the mage that..."

"Yes," Nathaniel said grimly. "You'll notice I normally call him Levyn; his real name is Jowan, and is unfortunately too well-known in certain circles for him to safely use anymore, even as a Grey Warden. Anyway, Arlessa Isolde slapped him in the dungeons there after guessing he'd been behind Arl Eamon's poisoning – which wasn't that hard to guess, he's such an innocent he'd made no effort at all to hide the evidence of what he'd done – and started torturing him to try and force him to cure the Arl. Then the depths of the Fade broke loose when young Connor contracted a demon out of his desire to save his father, and Isolde blamed Jowan for _that_ as well, not wanting to face that it was her own son at the root of the problem. Jowan... went through a pretty nasty time of it, until Katy tripped over him down in the dungeons while breaking in to the castle."

"And recruited him?"

"No," Nathaniel said, and gave Oswyn a twisted smile, taking a sip of his tea at last before finally continuing. "She freed him, actually. And then he was silly enough to follow her in to the castle instead of legging it for the horizon, and volunteered to preform a very dangerous blood-magic rite to free Connor from his demon. The only problem being it required a significant blood sacrifice. Which Arlessa Isolde volunteered to be. Katy was left with a very ugly decision to have to make, and in the end Isolde argued her into allowing the ritual. Isolde died, the ritual succeeded, and Katy hustled Jowan out of the castle again before Bann Teagan could lock him away. And Connor got shipped off to the tower." Nathaniel sighed, looking glum for a moment. "Poor kid. At least being noble-born, he's likely to be treated more gently than he might otherwise be; the chantry won't want his family getting up in arms about how he's handled, and the Guerrins have refused to allow him to be shipped overseas, which I understand is the usual solution in such situations."

"Anyway, that might have been the end of it, except Katy tripped over Jowan again some months later – having more successfully evaded the templars this time – helping people to flee to safety from darkspawn-infested areas of Amaranthine. Half-starved, dressed in little better than rags, but doing his best to make up for whatever wrongs he'd done. At which point Katy decided she could use another mage anyway, and recruited him for his own good."

Oswyn smiled. "I can imagine her doing that. And you've been his mentor ever since?"

"Pretty much. I think it was meant to teach me a few things, since that was when I was still in the stage where I couldn't believe what my father had done, and here was someone with first-hand experience, so to speak. He hadn't a clue who I was and told me the whole story, and a very ugly story it was – I'm sure you can imagine," Nate said grimly. "And I ended up rather liking him. He's like a clueless younger brother, I suppose – Thomas without the bile and jealousy, and with all the generosity in the world in place of selfishness. Katy thinks very highly of him, these days. Anyway, Maker help me if I ever let any harm come to a hair on his head. His wife is a very dear friend of my sister's, and all three of them would never forgive me if something happened to him."

"He's married?" Oswyn asked, surprised. "I thought mages weren't allowed?"

Nathaniel grinned. "He has a very strong-willed wife with a very influential father. A friend of my sister's, as I mentioned. She's a life-long invalid, since a childhood sickness weakened her limbs. One of the major customers of my brother-in-law's store, too, as being unable to do much physically she's always been bookish. Anyway, when Delilah found out I knew an actual healer mage, she insisted on wanting to see if there was anything he could do for her friend. He could, though naturally it took some time. Jowan is actually very bright, he's just nervous, socially inept and _astoundingly_ ignorant about everyday things we take for granted. The two of them got in the habit of conversing while he worked on her, and naturally fate would have it that they hit it off and were deeply in love by the time she was walking. Her father was so happy over what an improvement Jowan had been able to make in his daughter that he was perfectly content to see the two married, and was willing to spend a fair bit in bribes to make his daughter happy. So the two were wedded and live together at the Keep."

"What about children?" Oswyn asked, frowning.

Nathaniel shrugged. "It's my understanding she's unlikely to ever bear any. I suppose they'll worry about it if and when it happens. I don't enquire. Anyway, once he's awake and fed and able to converse coherently again we'll have to talk over what can be done to help you, since it looks like he _can_ help you, and I suspect what it'll boil down to is that I'm going to end up escorting him back and forth between the Vigil and here at regular intervals for some time to come. He won't be able to do it all in one go, clearly, and he's got responsibilities back at the keep too."

Oswyn nodded. "Whatever help he can give me, I very much appreciate."

Their conversation turned to talk of the Grey Wardens after that, Oswyn being interested in learning more about them seeing as both Katy and Nate were wardens now. Nathaniel was willing to oblige, and they demolished the contents of the tea tray between them while he talked. Oswyn could tell that there were times when Nathaniel was editing what he was saying, but tried not to pry; clearly the Grey Wardens had some things that weren't talked about to non-Wardens. He did take note of a few odd gaps in Nate's anecdotes for future thought, however.

They'd discovered the teapot was down to cold dregs when there was a knock on the door to the room. At Oswyn's answer, Janie came in, bearing a folded note sealed with a blob of candlewax. "Runner just brought this, ser," she said, and handed it to him.

"Thank you, Janie – you might as well clear this tray, I think we're done with it," he said.

"I'd better go check on Levyn anyway," Nate said. "I'll see you later."

Oswyn nodded, already cracking open the seal. A note from Varel, it proved to be, with a tentative yes to the offer of employment, but wanting to discuss it first in more detail. Oswyn grinned, feeling very pleased, and headed out of his suite and across the hall to the study, taking a seat at the desk to pen a reply. He wished he could ask him to come today, but clearly he was going to kept busy most of today dealing with Nathaniel and the mage. Possibly tomorrow... except, no, the morning was likely to be more Nate-and-Levyn, and he shouldn't leave Anora waiting too long before giving her at least a provisional decision, and... blight it, it was all getting very complicated all of a sudden. Today, he decided, if Varel could make it. He'd have to squeeze him in _somehow_ , perhaps while the mage was resting again, assuming he was even capable of doing anything further today, and... he bent to the letter, asking if Varel could come by that afternoon, and explaining that things had gotten unexpectedly busy.


	29. Chapter 29

Varel read Oswyn's note aloud to Myra as they ate lunch together. "You should go," she promptly said. "If things are getting busy for him, that likely means he'll need your help sooner rather than later. I could use some time alone to finish settling in and get my work area sorted out, anyway."

Varel nodded, and after they'd finished eating he quickly changed into better clothing and headed off to the Aylridge townhouse again. He barely hesitated before knocking at the front door again; he'd been invited to come, and he wasn't a servant yet.

The servant who answered it – some man he hadn't seen before – certainly looked at him as if he'd come to the wrong door, however. "Yes, may I help you?" he asked, in a tone of voice that implied that he doubted he could.

"I'm here to see Ser Oswyn," Varel said. "He invited me to come by this afternoon," he added, seeing the dubious look on the man's face.

The man sniffed, and grudgingly let Varel into the front hall. "Wait here, please," the man said coldly, and started to walk off toward the back of the house. He hadn't gone more than a few steps when there were voices and footsteps from overhead, and Varel looked up to see Bann Sighard descending the stairs, flushed and talking animatedly to a man hurrying along behind him, with additional guards and servants following in back of them. The Bann caught sight of him and stopped abruptly, a smile crossing his face. "Varel! Here to see Oswyn, I take it?"

"Yes, ser," Varel said, giving the man a deep bow.

"Good! He mentioned you're married now? You'll have to introduce me, if I'm here long enough, which it's looking likely that I will be. Jeffrey, show Varel straight through to Oswyn, he's expected," he said to the servant who'd opened the door, then turned back to Varel and smiled. "No time to talk right now, unfortunately – I hope I'll see you again later," he said, and swept out of the house, his train of servants and guards in tow.

Jeffrey thawed slightly, presumably because Varel clearly had Bann Sighard's approval. "This way, please," he said, and led the way to the back of the house, knocking on a door across from the one that led to the study.

Oswyn himself opened the door a moment later, and a happy grin lit his face as soon as he saw Varel. "Varel! Good, come in – thank you Jeffrey," he said, and stepped back, holding the door opened so Varel could enter, and then waving for him to take a seat. "Sorry for it being such short notice; things have suddenly become rather busy for me, as I mentioned. I hope you don't mind talking about this with others present; we'll likely be joined shortly by a couple of other people," he said, then frowned. "I should warn you one is the son of Rendon Howe; but he had nothing to do with what his father did to either myself or the alienage. And he's an old friend of mine."

Varel gave Oswyn a questioning look. "That must be difficult for both of you."

"It is," Oswyn agreed. "Anyway, he's a Grey Warden now. And he's here with another Grey Warden, a healer mage, who is seeing what he can do to help me," he said. His face lit up again with another happy smile, and he bent both his arms at the elbow several times. "Look! Almost no pain any more! Though it took him a good part of the morning just to work on my elbows, so it'll be some time to fix everything that he's able to. Which I'll have to discuss with him once he's here. But anyway, you had questions about the job?"

"Yes, such as needing to have a better idea of what duties you think it'll entail, what the pay will be – you'd also mentioned wanting me to live in."

Oswyn nodded. "Yes. Well, the main part of the job would just be to accompany me around and give me any help I needed. Anything from helping me up stairs to taking notes for me. Running errands sometimes. Likely a lot of waiting about in hallways," he added, with an amused smile. "And then being a bodyguard for me in places where my own guards can't necessarily follow. I can't take them everywhere, but a secretary or other high servant can go almost anywhere with me, save private meetings and some social functions."

"Do you have reason to believe your life is in danger?" Varel asked curiously.

"Not right now, no," Oswyn admitted. "But... that may change. I can't tell you why just yet. But I'm also my father's only heir and unable to adequately defend myself, and currently something as simple as being in the wrong place at the wrong time could get me killed. I'd prefer to guard against the unlikely chance of it than not."

Varel nodded. "Sensible enough. And you also wanted me to serve as a body servant at times?"

"Yes," Oswyn agreed, and flushed. When he resumed speaking his voice sounded a little constricted, betraying how uncomfortable he was. "You've already seen my scars. You know how badly I'm marked. But when you helped me before, you didn't... you didn't flinch from them. I didn't feel self-conscious about them around you. Not as badly as I have around others anyway," he said, and looked away. His voice was hoarser when he continued. "I'd brought someone from the estate with me, to use as a body servant if needed. He'd never seen my scars before. It was... rather awkward, for both of us."

As strangled as Oswyn's voice now sounded, Varel guessed that 'rather awkward' was an understatement. Clearly whatever had happened had distressed Oswyn deeply. Varel waited quietly while the man regained his composure, then resumed speaking, his voice less strained. "Anyway. It would mostly be things like helping with my bath and helping me to dress; you've seen how difficult it is for me to do even as simple a task as putting on my own stockings. I can manage loose clothing such as I'm wearing now, but fitted jackets are a minor nightmare even with help. That's why I'd prefer you to live in; I'd need your help most mornings and evenings, as well as during the day."

Varel nodded. "That sounds reasonable. I'd like to see the sort of quarters I'd have, either singly or with Myra also here, as you'd suggested might be possible."

"Of course," Oswyn said. "Now, as far as pay goes, I'd provide suitable clothing for you myself, so that wouldn't come out of your pay, and all your meals would be taken care of, as well as any additional equipage that was needed in the way of weapons, armour, or mounts. Since you'd be doing the work of several different servants all in one person, at least one of which is normally a position considered an upper servant – my secretary – the pay would of course be higher than it would be if I was hiring you as a body servant alone. Say... a gold piece a week to start?"

Varel sat very still. A gold piece a _week?_ That was more than he'd earned as a mercenary – a lot more. Certainly a far larger starting wage than he'd ever heard of any elf receiving. And including clothing, food, and so forth as well... he smiled. "That sounds adequate," he agreed.

"Excellent! I'd need you to start as soon as you can – tomorrow, if possible. I''ll likely be visiting the palace tomorrow afternoon, which means a bath and full court dress again."

There was a knock on the door, which proved to be Janie. "The Grey Wardens have finished their lunch and want to know if you're available to see them further now," she asked.

"Of course. Janie, you remember Varel – he's agreed to hire on as my companion and body-servant, among other things. While I'm busy with the wardens could you show him the rooms upstairs, both single and married quarters, and see about fitting him with some clothing – he'll likely be accompanying me to the palace tomorrow and will need something suitable for that, plus clothing for regular wear. Bring him back here when you're done," he asked her, then turned back to Varel. "We'll have more to talk of, but there's no point you sitting around waiting while the wardens and I get my business with them sorted out."

Varel nodded, and followed Janie away. She stopped at the dining room first, telling the two men waiting there to go on back to Oswyn's room, he was ready to see them now. Varel looked at them curiously, wondering which was the Howe and which was the mage. He guessed the larger one for the ex-nobleman; something about the confidence with which he stood. And he moved like a fighting man.

Once they were out of sight Janie looked Varel over from head to toe with a searching look. "We should be able to cut something down to fit you properly for tomorrow," she said after a minute. "Helps that you're so slender – easier to take things in than to let them out, and if they're worn it's more likely to show along the seams. And then we'll see about getting some things made from new, as well, once Ser Oswyn has let us know what sort of clothing you'll need. But I'll show you the rooms first. What's he hiring you on as, anyway? Body servant?"

"Err... several things. Body servant, secretary, body-guard, companion..."

"You're to be an upper servant? Not a garret room then," she said, and smiled. "Not that there's anything wrong with those, the Aylridges house their servants nicely, not like some people. But the upper servants get proper suites downstairs. Single or married, he said?"

"Yes. I'm newly wed," Varel explained. "We haven't decided yet if my wife live here with me, or stay in the alienage."

Janie nodded, and led the way upstairs. Not all the way to the attic spaces where the common servants were housed, as she'd said, but the floor beneath that. The corridors there were much narrower and not as well-lit as lower in the house, but they were clean and nicely decorated in a subdued fashion, and smelled of soap and wood polish. Janie had a housekeeping ring of keys on her belt; she unhooked it and started sorting through the keys as she walked down a hallway. "I'll show you a single first," she said. "And then the married quarters. Most of those are empty here at the townhouse, most of the Aylridge servants are housed out of the castle in the bannorn, and Ser Sighard only brings part of the household with him when he comes to town. If you're to accompany the young ser everywhere, you'll likely be assigned quarters at the castle as well. Anyway, this is a single," she said, unlocking a door at the end of the hallway and leading the way in.

It really was a suite of rooms; a very small sitting room with its own fireplace, a tiny bedroom, and an equally tiny bathing chamber with a washstand, a copper tub, and a well-sealed earth closet, with real plumbing for the tub. "Cold water only," Janie explained. "The boiler the dwarves put in only serves the family and better guest rooms. But it's easy enough to heat a can or two by the fire to take the nip off." They were quite nice rooms, the sitting room and bedroom both well-lit by windows in their exterior walls, and the suite was almost as large as his pair of rooms down in the alienage.

Janie led the way back up the hallway and down another one to the larger suites for couples. The sitting room was noticeably larger, easily twice the size of the one in the single, though the bedroom wasn't that much larger – perhaps half again as much floor space, which was still far more room than he and Myra had in their current bedroom. The bathroom was slightly larger as well, though not by very much; mainly, he judged, it was the same width as the previous one, but a couple of feet longer in order to match the increased depth of the bedroom it was adjacent to.

Janie led him to the other end of the floor, where many of the household workrooms were. She stopped a passing maid, sending the girl off to fetch a pair of seamstresses, and then led Varel into one of the workrooms. Things got very busy for a while, with servants coming and going, fetching outfits from storage and holding them up before him for one of the seamstresses to judge the appropriateness of, sometimes having him put them on inside-out so they could pin or baste seams to adjust the fit to him. It was chaos, but very _organized_ chaos; it took little more than an hour for Janie to be satisfied that they'd have at least two or three outfits ready for him by the next day, including one good enough to wear to the palace, after which she showed him back downstairs to Oswyn's rooms again.

Oswyn was sitting in a chair dressed only in his shirt, one of his legs lifted up across the lap of the smaller of the two wardens, the other warden slouched in a seat nearby watching whatever it was that was being done. Oswyn made a shushing motion with one finger and gestured to a nearby chair. Varel quietly walked over and seated himself, wondering what was going on. It was only when he noticed the glow around the man's hands that he realized the mage was doing some kind of magic.

Within a few minutes the mage's eyes opened again, his hands releasing Oswyn's knee. He was frowning. "Your knees are going to take a lot of work to fix," he said decisively. "At least two days for each, at a guess, possibly even three, and you'll have to stay off your feet until they're finished, or undo a lot of whatever I've managed to fix that day. We'll have to work out when you can take the time to have them seen to, and schedule time for me to come and work on them."

"Same as the hips, then," Oswyn said, sounding a touch glum. "What about lesser injuries, like my ankles and wrists? Or my back? Could you fix any of those today?"

The mage started to speak, then noticed Varel for the first time and visibly started.

"Sorry, I should have introduced you," Oswyn said. "Levyn, this is Varel, a friend of mine, whom I've just hired to be one of my servants. He'll be my secretary and body servant both, among other things, so he'll have to be involved in whatever care I need. Varel, these are the Grey Wardens I mentioned to you earlier – the mage Levyn, and my friend Nathaniel Howe. He uses a bow, like you do."

Varel and Nathaniel eyed each other thoughtfully, assessing each other. "Short bow?" the warden asked.

"Long-bow. And daggers, the rest of the time. Though I'm learning some better sword-work since I recently acquired a rather good one," he said, smiling briefly at Oswyn, who grinned back, knowing the sword had been one of Bann Sighard's gifts to Varel.

Levyn, meanwhile, had shifted position, moving his chair so that he could examine Oswyn's foot and ankle. The other three men fell briefly silent and watched while he started work, a subtle glow springing up around his hands again, then resumed their conversation, Oswyn flexing his foot around in various directions in response to guiding touches from the mage.

"Oswyn mentioned to me you were in a mercenary company?" Nate asked.

"Yes, the Blackstone Irregulars."

Nate nodded. "I've heard of them,. They used to be quite good."

"Used to be, yes... I enjoyed my time with them, and the training was excellent, but I can't say that I care much for their current commander."

"That would be Taoran Hawkwind, isn't it?" Nathaniel asked, then continued when Varel nodded. "Katherine had a word or two to say about him, none of them kind – she'd done some work for his father during the Blight, to earn money for supplies and so on. Quite liked him. Did a few jobs for Taoran as well, until he tried to talk her into killing off his father so he could take over. She turned him down – I guess someone else didn't."

Varel nodded. "That was the word in the Irregulars – when anyone dared to say anything at all. That he'd had his father killed, and tried to make it look like he'd had nothing to do with it. But he must not have been careful enough; word got out about it. I didn't much care for his morals even before I heard the rumour; I'd originally signed up with the Irregulars because they were an honourable company. Not anymore, not with Taoran leading them. So I finished out my term and got out."

Nate nodded, and then asked about what sort of training Varel had had with the Irregulars. It turned into a lengthy conversation, with both Nathaniel and Oswyn questioning him about his skills in various areas, and by the end of it he found he'd somehow ended up agreeing to spar with Nate whenever the warden was there with Levyn, for additional practise and training. Not that he minded the idea; not at all. A chance to learn from someone as highly trained as Grey Wardens were reputed to be? He'd have to be mad to turn it down. And if part of his job description was 'bodyguard', he wanted to be as good a guard as he possibly could be to justify it. Which meant better weapons skills, among other things.

He asked about that, too, and Oswyn agreed that more than just a certain level of ability with weapons was needed. He'd require some specialized training as well, which Oswyn said he would have to enquire further into in order to find out where Varel could obtain it. "I'll pay any costs for that, of course," Oswyn added.

While they talked Levyn moved on from examining Oswyn's feet and ankles to his wrists and hands. "Shoulders and back next," the mage eventually said. "Though you'll have to remove the shirt for those."

Oswyn blushed. "In which case I think I'd like to put my pants back on first."

"I think Levyn should take a short rest break first anyway," Nate said, frowning at the mage. "You've been doing magic pretty steadily since we got here," he pointed out.

"Should I send for refreshments then?" Oswyn asked.

"Yes," Nate said, and smiled. "You'll find we Grey Wardens are bottomless pits for food, especially when we're working."

Oswyn snorted. "The hardest work you've done all day is sit in a chair and talk."

Nate grinned. "We're bottomless pits when we're not working too."

Oswyn grinned back at him, then turned to Varel. "Would you like to stay longer as well? You're more than welcome to."

"No, I should head home and let Myra know how things went. And that I'll have to be back here first thing tomorrow to start work. Do you mind if I continue living at the alienage until Myra has made up her mind about whether or not she wants to live here as well? It's a short enough walk that I can still be here during the hours you need me."

Oswyn nodded. "Certainly. Why don't you bring her with you tomorrow morning, so she can see the rooms for herself? She can breakfast with us; I'm sure father would be interested in meeting her."

Varel nodded. "I'll do that then. Oh. What should I call you? Ser? Ser Oswyn? Messere Aylridge?"

Oswyn laughed. "Just Oswyn will do for now. I'll explain the protocol for when we're in public tomorrow, while you're helping me dress."

Varel nodded again, made his farewells to the three men, and showed himself out. He was halfway back to the alienage before he even realized he had a big grin on his face; he was looking forward to starting work the next day.

Myra was excited by his news; especially when he told her what his starting wage was going to. "Maker above! That's _wonderful_ ," she exclaimed, then looked thoughtful. "We might want to consider holding onto this apartment even if we both normally live at the townhouse," she suggested. "At least at first, until we see how well it works out. Especially if you'll sometimes be off travelling elsewhere with him; I don't know that I'd want to stay all on my own in a house full of humans. Between your wage and what I can make from my shawls, we should be able to afford to keep our own household as well."

Varel frowned thoughtfully. "That's not a bad idea. Because I do like this place, and if we gave it up and later wanted to move back into the alienage, we might not be able to get as good a space; the population is going up steadily, and while it's still relatively empty now, that won't last forever. But we can discuss that more tomorrow, after you've seen the rooms too. Right now I think we should have a particularly nice dinner to celebrate our good fortune, and then early to bed, since we'll have to be up before dawn tomorrow."

Myra lifted an eyebrow. "I can think of another good reason to go to bed early."

"I was counting that as part of the celebration," Varel agreed with a smile.

* * *

_Been meaning to include this picture for a while; it's Myra as she looks based on playing around in the Dragon Age: Origins character creator. Unfortunately I created her as a Surana and the lighting in the tower is terrible. She's got Zevran's skintone, and has medium brown hair. Those are the lightest green eyes I had, but they should be a shade or two lighter to match my mental image of her._

  
Myra Baern


	30. Chapter 30

_Pain and fear, pain like fire in his joints, throat raw from screaming. He had tried not to scream, at first, but that just made things worse; Howe hurt him even worse, then, until he had no choice but screaming. He fought sometimes, blindly struggling against the straps that held him bound down and near-motionless. Every joint hurt, so that lying still or trying to move were equally torturous. He heard Howe's voice sometimes, speaking emotionlessly from somewhere nearby, or purring insinuation near his ear as hands touched and tormented him further. The taste of blood in his mouth, the bite of bile as he threw up what little liquid was in his stomach, the brief relief of a ladle of stale water held to his cracked lips. A long thin knife held up before his eyes, hilt turning over and over in slender fingers while he was told exactly what was going to be done with it next, the anticipation of pain as much a part of the torture as the actual use of the knife. Howe's hands, tightening a strap to hold him more snugly before he began..._

Oswyn started awake, hearing the fading echo of the shout that had woken him. He lay in bed gasping for breath, feeling his heart hammering with remembered panic. It was several minutes before he could bring himself to sit up, hands trembling as he got himself turned to sit on the edge of the bed, and fumbled on the small table nearby for his jar of pain medication. Not that his joints hurt much more then normal at the moment, but the _remembered_ pain... he needed something to numb that. He forced himself to take only a very small sip of it, not enough to really numb the physical pain, but enough to take the edge off the mental, to slow his frantically scurrying thoughts. He knew he daren't take any more than that; there was too much he needed to do today for him to be all wool-brained with painkiller.

He lay back down again, but was too unsettled by his re-awakened memories to go back to sleep; he snapped awake again every time he started to drift, fearing to find himself back in the nightmare. He wondered what had set it off this time; perhaps the earlier pain of having his elbows healed. Levyn had also done some work on his wrists, though that thankfully had not been as bad. Uncomfortable at points, yes, but not anywhere near as painful as the elbows had been.

Finally he heard the faint distant sounds of the inhabitants of the house beginning to stir for the day. The first grey light of pre-dawn was just beginning to show between his curtains when the door opened and Peter came in, silently making his way over to the windows.

"I'm awake," Oswyn said quietly, sitting up in bed.

"Good morning, ser," Peter said, dipping a brief bow toward him before opening the curtains. "The elf has arrived."

"Varel? Oh, good – send him in. Might as well start him off right away; he can help me with dressing."

"Yes, ser," Peter said, and left the room after opening all the curtains.

Varel entered the room a couple of minutes later, looking as if he felt a little self-conscious. Oswyn smiled, unexpectedly amused, and Varel smiled back, then broke into a grin. "Morning," he said cheerfully.

"Good-morning, Varel," Oswyn said back, managing to keep his tone formal by an effort of well. "Did you bring Myra?"

"Yes, ser – she's waiting in the front hall."

"Good," Oswyn said, nodding. "Now... I suppose we should discuss your duties, both in general and what you're to do today."

"Yes, ser," Varel said, looking attentively at him.

"All right. Most mornings, unless I've indicated that I need to be up at a specific time, you will wait until you hear me ring before coming in. On mornings when I wish to be woken, you're to enter and open the curtains – as Peter has already done," he added, gesturing to the brightly-lit windows. "Normally that's enough to wake me – I'm usually a very light sleeper. If that alone is not sufficient to wake me, then do something such as speaking my name aloud; don't try shaking me – I don't react well to unexpected touches, as you noticed when I was staying with you," he said, lips twisting slightly in humour.

Varel nodded. "So I recall," he agreed.

"Now, depending on circumstances, I will want some combination of breakfast, a bath, and aid in dressing. Since I'm due at the palace later today, I _will_ want to bathe today, but not until later this morning. And I will be eating in the dining room this morning, rather than privately in here. So my first want will be...?" he prompted.

"Clothing," Varel immediately responded. "A casual outfit to wear just until your bath?"

"Yes," Oswyn agreed, then nodded to the side of the room, where an armoire and a chest of drawers stood. "Pick me out an outfit – the armoire is organized with formal outfits on the left and more casual things on the right, while stockings and undergarments are in the chest. Leggings are in both, depending on whether they need to be hung or can be folded. There's also a selection of shoes and boots in the drawer in the bottom of the armoire."

Varel nodded, and stepped over to the armoire, opening both doors. He quickly looked over the items inside, peeked into the deep drawer beneath, then picked out a fairly plain tunic and leggings from the right side, a pair of soft indoor shoes, and selected stockings and smalls from the chest of drawers. He brought his selections over and displayed them to Oswyn, raising one eyebrow questioningly.

Oswyn smiled and nodded. "Excellent choices. They even co-ordinate well," he said approvingly. "I'll need some assistance in changing, but I prefer to do for myself as much as I can. Only help me if I actually need it."

"Of course," Varel said, and handed him the smallclothes to start. He helped a little with the stockings, but mostly stood quietly nearby, handing Oswyn things as he was ready for them. Oswyn was pleased to see that he thought ahead, gathering up the stockings before kneeling down to slip them over Oswyn's feet, and presenting the tunic to him in such a way that it was easy to just lift his arms and slide them forward into the loose shirt and out the sleeves, then duck his head through and out the neck. Varel knelt and placed the shoes by his feet at the end, so he merely needed to stand up and step into them each in turn.

"Thank you," Oswyn said, smiling warmly at him, then nodded at the dresser, and the tray of toiletries on top of it. "I'll need to do something about my hair, but a shave can wait until I take a bath later."

Varel nodded, and fetched a comb and hand-mirror from the tray. He quickly neatened Oswyn's hair, showing him the result in the mirror when he was done.

"Excellent – now, let's go fetch your wife, and the three of us can breakfast together. After which one of the maidservants will take the two of you upstairs so you can show her the workrooms and the servants' quarters, while Levyn does more of his healing on me. After that it'll be time for me to bathe and change, and then we'll be going to lunch at the castle. My father will be coming along for that as well."

Oswyn led the way out into the hall and to the front entry, where Myra was seated on a bench in a little waiting area to one side, a bag at her side and knitting speared across her lap, looking very much at her ease. She looked up and smiled as they approached.

"Good morning, Myra," Oswyn said, dipping her a very shallow bow, and looked interestedly at her work. "That's not a veil... a sweater, perhaps?"

"Yes," Myra said, smiling warmly up at him, and spreading it out for a moment for him to see before wrapping it up and putting it away in her bag. "For Varel."

Oswyn grinned. "I like the colour," he said, then gestured in the direction of the dining room. "Please, both of you join me for breakfast," he asked, then led the way down the hall and into the room.

Bann Sighard was already there, eating his own breakfast. He broke off and rose to his feet, greeting Varel warmly and welcoming him to their service, before asking for a proper introduction to Varel's wife, which Oswyn supplied.

"Most mornings you'll eat with me," Oswyn quietly instructed Varel while Sighard was greeting Myra. "I prefer to make my own selections, but it's easiest if you carry and prepare my plate for me; then once I'm seated you can fetch your own. But for today since Myra is here as our guest, I'll have one of the other servants manage my plate, so that you can accompany her."

Varel nodded, and after Bann Sighard had resumed his seat, the pair of them followed Oswyn over to the sideboard, where Oswyn signalled for one of the maids to serve him. Myra and Varel waited until he'd made his selections before picking out their own breakfasts from the array of foodstuffs there, then joined him and his father at table.

Sighard waited until they were settled and had eaten at least a few bites before turning to talk to Myra. "My son has mentioned to me that you knit ring veils. And that he'd offered to make some of our wool available to you?"

"Yes, he has," Myra said, glancing briefly at Oswyn. "I was quite surprised to learn that your bannorn is one of the sources of the raw wool; I knew it was produced here, but not where."

Sighard smiled, looking pleased. "Yes, my great-grandfather started the herd, back before the Orlesian occupation. He'd heard the goats needed a cold climate to produce the right sort of wool. As he pointed out, if there's one thing Ferelden has a lot of, it's cold weather."

Myra smiled. "So I have heard. I must admit I am not looking forward to experiencing my first Ferelden winter; it can get cold in Kirkwall, but the Waking Sea is warm enough to keep it above freezing on all but the coldest days."

Sighard nodded. "Yes... it's not too bad here in Denerim, a bit snowy at times, but being on the ocean as it is keeps it somewhat warmer. But get a good cold wind blowing from the south, and the temperatures can drop quite dramatically. It's worse inland, of course, and the further south you go, the colder it gets. The Chasind barbarians apparently have stories that say if you go far enough south, the trees disappear, and then eventually you reach a place where the snow and ice stays all year round. There's supposed to be an Orlesian settlement that's almost that far south – beyond where the trees disappear, I mean – somewhere far to the southwest of here. They say there are days in the heart of winter where the sun never rises there, and a brief period in summer where it never sets!"

Myra shivered. "Strange lands indeed! I would not wish to live in such a place."

Bann Sighard smiled. "Nor would I," he admitted. "But getting back to the subject of ring veils... I was wondering if you might be interested in a business proposition. It would be a better profit for Dragoon's Peak if we could sell some finished shawls, and not just the wool. Would you be willing to take on teaching some of our craftswomen the making of them? No great number of them, of course, since one reason for the shawls' value is their rarity – I was thinking perhaps two or three women a year at most, in exchange for a supply of wool for your own use, and an additional payment per month."

Myra looked surprised, then slowly smiled. "I would certainly be willing to discuss the idea in more detail," she said after a moment.

Bann Sighard smiled warmly back at her. "Good. Today would not be a good time, unfortunately... I'm not sure when I'll have some time free," he added, frowning slightly. "I'll have Varel bring you word of when I'm free, and we can arrange a time to discuss it then, shall I?"

"That would be acceptable," Myra agreed.

"Excellent," he said, smile widening, and then turned the subject away from business and back to more social topics – mostly talk of the Free Marches, and questions about her impressions of Ferelden so far. It was, all in all, a very pleasant meal Oswyn thought.

After breakfast was over with, he summoned Janie, and asked her to escort Varel and Myra upstairs to see the rooms again, and the workrooms too. "See to it that Varel's given his good suit of clothes, when you're done, please," he asked, then smiled at Varel. "Bring them down to my room – you can change there after helping me with my bath."

Varel nodded, and headed off upstairs in Janie's wake, his hand resting comfortably against the small of Myra's back. Watching the pair of them walking so amiably together gave Oswyn a brief and unsettling pang of jealousy; the two had clearly developed a deep affection for one another already. He could only wonder if he and Anora would ever be as comfortable with one another.

He returned to his rooms, where he was joined by Nate and Levyn. The mage settled down to do some preliminary work on his ankles and feet; they'd suffered considerable damage, and would take a number of sessions to deal with, he said. For today he was concentrating on minor repairs only; even that proved sufficiently painful that Oswyn was blinking back tears by the time Nate called an end to the session.

Varel had returned shortly before, and was standing to one side, watching quietly, an interested, attentive look on his face. He waited until Nate had led the mage off before speaking. "What should I do now? Do you need your medicine?"

Oswyn shook his head. "No. The pain will pass soon enough, and I'd rather not be mazed when I'm lunching with the Queen. Start the bath filling, then go to the kitchen and ask for some willow bark tea to be brought. That and a hot soaking should be enough to settle me."

Varel nodded, and vanished into the bathing chamber. Oswyn leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, and just rested for a while, until Varel returned from the kitchen and told him his bath was ready. Bathing went well – much better than it had with Peter, anyway, with none of the self-consciousness or angry embarrassment that he'd felt then. The only thing that bothered him a little was having his back scrubbed, which made him tense up, but Varel handled the task with the same calm detachment and firm touch he'd done everything else, not flinching away from the scars or otherwise drawing attention to them.

One problem quickly became apparent, however – Varel had no experience with shaving. Being an elf, he had no facial hair himself – and damned little elsewhere, according to everything Oswyn had ever heard about elves, anyway. "I'd better shave myself then," Oswyn said, seeing how worried Varel was about it. "There'll be time enough to teach you how it's done – we'll add it to the list of skills I need to arrange for you to receive proper training in," he added with a grin. He did talk Varel through such simple tasks as foaming the soap and applying it to his cheeks, and sharpening the razor, then while Varel held a small mirror where he could see it, he carefully scraped his face smooth.

"You make it look easy," Varel observed, watching attentively.

Oswyn grinned as he rinsed off the blade. "It is easy, when you've been doing it damn near daily since the age of fourteen. It's not all that hard though; you'll learn quickly enough. The main thing it needs is a steady hand."

Oswyn was feeling pleasantly content by the time he was dried off and wrapped in a robe, and sitting down to drink the rather bitter tea while Varel towelled dry and combed out his hair. "You might as well change into your good clothes while my hair dries a little further," Oswyn said after a while. "Feel free to make use of the bathing chamber for privacy, or if you'd like to freshen up a little before changing."

Varel nodded, fetched his bundle of clothing, and disappeared into the other room for a few minutes. Oswyn was pleased to hear the water running briefly; not that Varel _needed_ to bathe, but it was fitting to endeavour to be as cleanly in person and sweet-scented in body and breath as possible when visiting the royal precincts. And he had a desire for the young elf to make as good an impression as he might, considering that if he married Anora, as seemed all but certain now, the two would of necessity come into frequent contact.

He smiled when Varel returned. The elf had taken the time to re-do his braids and smooth down his hair with a little scented oil. And the outfit, a dark blue jacket over blue-black leggings trimmed with fine gold cord, the polished gold-coloured buttons on the jacket embossed with the Dragon's Peak stars, fit Varel perfectly. Oswyn made note that he'd have to remember to pass his thanks on to the seamstresses for their swift work; Varel looked every inch a well-dressed retainer, from the top of his neatly-barbered head to the polished black boots on his feet.

"Excellent," he said, realizing he'd been grinning silently at the elf. "You look very well turned out. Now let's see if we can work a similar transformation with my own clothes," he added, and rose to his feet, walking over to the armoire to select his own outfit this time. Varel walked over as well, and he passed things to the elf to hold as he made his selections; leggings of dark brown suede, a slashed jacket of heavy linen dyed to match, a loose navy blue silk shirt, and polished brown leather boots. The jacket and leggings were trimmed with a twist of light- and dark-gold cord. He picked out fine-knit blue stockings and clean smalls as well, then with Varel's help set to changing into it all. Varel needed very little direction about what to do, and as he had earlier that day, showed a knack for anticipating Oswyn's needs that made things proceed relatively effortlessly for both of them.

It had definitely been a good idea to hire Varel on, he decided.

Oswyn was in a very good mood by the time he was fully dressed. He added a couple of finishing touches – a heavy signet ring of gold and sapphire, his nicest cane – and led the way to the study to wait for his father to be ready as well. While they waited, he went over matters of protocol with Varel; what names and titles he'd need to know, when to use them, who he should bow to and in what degree, and so forth.

"If in doubt, keep an eye on father's secretary, Pierce, and do what he does. I'll see the two of you are introduced when father joins us. For today Pierce will provide record-keeping duties for both of us; sit where you can observe his note-taking and so forth. You'll need to do that for me in future; I'll see that a writing kit is put together for you. For today you'll carry no weapons, but when accompanying me to locations other than the palace I'll want you to carry at least a discrete dagger, and in some cases a sword." He paused, and then smiled. "A bow is unlikely, unless we're out hunting in the countryside. I'll warn you any time I expect a weapon to be carried, in any case. Do you have any questions?"

Varel looked thoughtful for a moment. "None that I can think of at the moment. It sounds like for today I'm mostly to just be there to attend on you if you need it, be silent unless spoken to, and observe how Pierce does his duties?"

Oswyn grinned. "Pretty much. Though things may get considerably more demanding soon; you'll learn why during lunch," he said, then frowned. "Which reminds me... what's being discussed at lunch today is to be kept very quiet. You're not to speak of it to anyone but myself, or my father if he happens to ask you. That means not even Myra, at least for now; you'll understand why once you've heard the topic under discussion."

Varel's eyebrows rose slightly, then he nodded. "I'll not say a word to anyone."

"Good."

There was a rap at the door, then it opened, letting in Peter. "Beg your pardon, ser – that warden is looking for you. The tall one."

"Nate? Send him in."

Nathaniel joined them a few minutes later. He'd changed from the well-worn leathers that seemed to be his preferred clothing and into a more formal outfit of blue and grey with silver trim, the Grey Warden colours. "Seems Anora has learned I'm back in town; she's requested me to accompany you and your father to lunch at the palace, as Katy's representative," Nate told Oswyn, and grimaced. "And she had the messenger bring me some of my better clothing from the Grey Warden compound at the palace, so I'm assuming it's a formal luncheon? Who all will be there?"

Oswyn nodded. "Formal, yes, but only a very select group of guests. My father and I, Queen Anora, possibly one or two of her closest advisers. And a handful of staff – father and I are both bringing someone," he added, nodding at Varel.

Nate looked Varel over, then grinned. "Already has you working hard, does he?"

Varel looked uneasy for a moment, as if uncertain how to respond. He glanced at Oswyn, then shrugged and smiled. "Easier work that being a mercenary. So far, anyway."

Nate smiled and nodded approval, then turned back to Oswyn. "Care to let me in on what this luncheon is about?"

Oswyn smiled broadly, pleased to be the one in the know for once. "You'll find out soon enough," he said.

Nate snorted. "I've a few guesses. But I suppose I can wait. Are you leaving soon?"

"As soon as my father is ready to depart, yes," Oswyn said. "Which should be any... ah, here he is," he said, rising to his feet as Bann Sighard strode into the room, his secretary trailing along behind.

Quick introductions were made – Oswyn explaining to his father that Anora had requested that Nate accompany them, then quietly introducing Pierce and Varel while Sighard briefly chatted with Nate.

"Well, are we all ready?" Bann Sighard asked after a few minutes, looking around the room. "Good. Let's be off then – we mustn't keep the Queen waiting! Walk with me please, Nathaniel, I'd like to hear from you what Kate has been up to lately."

"Of course, Bann Sighard," Nate said, falling in step with the older man. They led the way out, Oswyn and Varel behind them, with Pierce and a pair of guards bringing up the rear.


	31. Chapter 31

Varel felt a mix of excitement and apprehension as they set out for the palace. What in Andraste's name was _he_ , a lowly alienage elf and late a mercenary, doing dressed up like a lordling and going to drop in on the Queen in her palace? True, he was merely there as Oswyn's new servant, but... it didn't seem real. The fine clothing, the polished boots – which pinched a little, he noticed, and hoped he wouldn't be spending too much time on his feet – the even finer clothes of the rest of the party.

Bann Sighard suggested a carriage, as they emerged from the townhouse and Oswyn cautiously negotiated his way down the front steps.

"I'd rather walk," Oswyn said. "The exercise is good for me, it's not that far, and the weather is very fine."

Varel noted the slight smile that crossed Sighard's face as he acquiesced to his son's preferences. It was indeed a nice day, heading into autumn now, the air cool but not yet chill, the sun out and a light breeze blowing. They walked along at a decorous pace, Bann Sighard and Warden Howe talking together while Oswyn followed in silence, a pensive expression on his face. Bann Sighard paused briefly at one point, to look over a weed-grown pile of stone where a sizable estate must have been prior to the Blight. Oswyn, Varel noticed, studied a trio of townhouses on the other side of the street, until they moved on again.

He couldn't help feeling very self-conscious when they reached the palace gates, especially as the lone elf in a group of humans. He felt like an imposter – surely the guards would notice he didn't belong here, and refuse him entrance – but they didn't, merely politely greeting the two nobles and the warden as they entered, and ignoring the servants entirely.

The palace was... well, nothing like he'd have expected. It was magnificent, but not noticeably more ornate than the Aylridge's castle at Dragon's Peak. Mainly larger, and of somewhat finer materials in some parts of it; a mosaic of coloured stones filled the entry hall, for example, instead of the encaustic tiling he'd seen at Dragon's Peak. Though there was encaustic tiling here as well, he saw, decorative insets of such set into some of the hallway floors at intervals, the tiles showing patterns of foliage mostly. And mabari – the dogs were a frequent motif in the decor, being part of the heraldry and so much a part of the history of Ferelden as they were. They cropped up everywhere – beam ends carved into mabari heads, tables with feet shaped like those of mabari, as well as being shown in tapestries, painted on shields, even full-formed carvings and statuettes of them scattered here and there. And one of the real dogs itself, as well, pacing the hallways on patrol with a pair of guards. It glanced once at them as the two parties approached and passed each other, and otherwise ignored them.

They went higher in the palace, Oswyn taking his time climbing the stairs, Varel following close behind in case he had problems with his balance. The decor became finer, the walls panelled instead of plastered or rough-dressed stone, the hallway floors now of finely polished wood, with a thickly carpeted runner down the middle of it. Oswyn walked to one side of it, preferring the stability of bare flooring underfoot. Eventually they reached a pair of guarded doors. One of the guards spoke in greeting to Bann Sighard, Oswyn, and Warden Howe, while the other opened the doors to let them in to the royal apartments.

Queen Anora was seated at one end of a long couch, talking quietly with another woman seated at the other end. They both looked up as the men entered, then Queen Anora smiled welcomingly and they both rose to their feet. Bann Sighard, Oswyn, and Nathaniel all bowed deeply to the Queen, as did Pierce and, just a touch belatedly, Varel.

"Bann Sighard, Ser Oswyn, Ser Nathaniel – I'm so pleased all of you were able to join me today," the Queen said, smiling at all three men in turn. "We have much to discuss. You're all familiar with Ser Cauthrien, I hope?"

The three men bowed in turn to the woman at Anora's side. She had shoulder-length black hair and watchful, dark blue eyes, set off nicely by the full-skirted burgundy dress she was wearing. Varel had heard of her, of course, and joined Pierce in bowing in her direction. Ser Cauthrien, once Teryn Loghain's right hand, then made leader of Maric's Shield, the elite royal guards, after the disaster at Ostagar killed the previous leader – and much of the existing guard – which she had ably rebuilt during the months afterwards. She had, he remembered, been in bad odour for some brief time after Loghain Mac Tir's death at the Landsmeet, though he'd never heard why – though naturally, rumours had abounded – and then after the Blight ended Queen Anora had insisted on naming her as General of the Fereldan Army, saying she required a person she trusted in such a vital role, and that Cauthrien had earned her trust.

"We're awaiting one more arrival, gentlemen, and then we shall proceed to the dining room. Please, join me here for now," she said, gesturing at the cluster of comfortable looking seats. Bann Sighard and Oswyn sat down side-by-side on a smaller couch adjacent to the one Anora and Cauthrien were sharing; Nate slouched at his ease in an armchair nearby. Pierce withdrew to sit on a straight-backed chair in a row of such near the door, his hands neatly folded over the leather satchel he carried; Varel quietly joined him there.

Varel watched Oswyn for a couple of minutes, not paying any particular attention to the conversation – an exchange of pleasantries, mostly – and was pleased to see how cheerful and alert he looked today; such a change from the melancholy, withdrawn man he'd been when Varel first encountered him. He smiled slightly, thinking of Oswyn's word when he first broached the subject of hiring Varel – that he needed "someone who'll prod me to eat when I should and see I don't just lie in bed all day feeling sorry for myself" – a friend, as much as a servant. Varel felt honoured, that Oswyn was willing to consider him such.

He realized after a while that Pierce was studying him, and turned to look at the older man, studying him in turn. Pierce had short sandy-brown hair, balding on top and touched with grey at the temples, a neatly-trimmed little goatee – also greying – and light green eyes He was dressed in an outfit very similar to what Varel had been given. Pierce smiled – a friendly sort of smile – and nodded his head just slightly. "We can talk, as long as we're quiet about it," the secretary said softly, voice barely above a whisper. "At least while they're talking of nothing serious. Bann Sighard gave me to understand that he thinks well of you and that I'm to give you any assistance I can. Have you had any training as a secretary?"

"No. I can write a fair hand, and had some training in map-making and the taking of notes while I was a mercenary, but that was more along the lines of noting down how many troops and of what kinds I'd seen while out scouting, or simple record keeping about supplies and the condition of armaments."

Pierce nodded. "We'll have to see what additional training we can arrange for you between now and when Bann Sighard returns home, then," he said, and looked thoughtful. "I'll speak to Ser Oswyn about it; I may be able to make some suggestions as to where you can seek additional training within Denerim when I am not here."

Varel nodded. "I thank you for any help you can give; I know I am only partially trained for all that Ser Oswyn wishes me to undertake for him, and I wish to serve him well."

Pierce smiled slightly. "That is a proper attitude to have," he began, then glanced past Varel and fell silent again.

Varel turned to look, and found the doors to the room opening again. Two men swept into the room; or at least, the first one swept in, the second much older man followed at a more decorous pace. The one in front was a middle-aged man, somewhere between Oswyn and Bann Sighard in age, with short reddish-brown hair and deeply lined light blue eyes. He was dressed in mourning colours; black jacket, leggings, and boots, all of richly brocaded fabrics, trimmed with silver cord, and with a charcoal grey shirt visible through the slashed sleeves. He was wearing a soft cap of black velvet, the only touch of colour in his outfit being a small gold badge with an enamelled crest in red, white and grey that was affixed to the front of it. He removed the cap and swept a very deep bow to Queen Anora as she and her guests all rose to their feet, a single braided forelock slipping free from behind one ear as he did so. He tucked it back in place as he straightened again, holding the cap loosely in his other hand.

"Bann Teagan," she said quietly. "Or should I say, Arl Teagan?"

Soft gasps escaped several of the people present. Pierce went very still. Varel realized he was present at what was a momentous point in Ferelden's history; Arl Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe was dead.

"I would prefer Bann for now, please, at least until such time as my position has been confirmed," Bann Teagan said, sounding tired. "I still dislike that my nephew has been set aside; mage or no, Connor is my brother's son, and I never thought to replace him."

"It speaks well of you that you think first of him," Queen Anora said. "I sent a messenger to Kinloch Hold as soon as your own messenger reached me; I have requested that Connor be allowed to leave the tower to attend court in the coming days, and take part in his father's memorial service here."

"Thank you," Teagan said, bowing again.

"Please, join us here," Anora said, gesturing to the seats. "We will go in to eat soon, but first I would hear from your own lips about my uncle's passing."

Hearing her name Arl Eamon so startled Varel briefly, and then he realized it was true; Arl Eamon was her uncle, even if only by marriage, as was Bann Teagan as well. It made him realize again how small and interconnected the world of the nobility was.

The man who had followed Bann Teagan in had, meanwhile, moved to sit down on the other side of Pierce from Varel. He was a much older man, rather leonine in appearance, with long grey hair and a full beard. While Pierce and Varel were both dressed in the dark blue and gold of Dragon's Peak, the older man was dressed in a dark red jacket and leggings trimmed with thin gold cord over an immaculate white shirt. There was a small badge of white, gold and bright red embroidered on the left breast; the mabari and shield of the Ferelden monarchy. He, like Pierce, carried a leather satchel, though his was of ornately tooled and gilded leather. He must be Anora's secretary, Varel realized, even as Pierce set to quietly introducing the two of them.

"Ser Lymon, this is Varel, Ser Oswyn's new secretary," Pierce explained in an undertone. "He's in training."

Ser Lymon looked him over intently from head to toes, then nodded, just once. "An elf? That will set some people back a little," he said, and smiled thinly. "Let me know if you encounter any problems among our fraternity, young man." He looked away then, returning his attention to the group of nobles. The three of them sat quietly, Pierce clearly being unwilling to continue talking further at the moment and Varel, as the junior member of the group, feeling it best to follow his lead.

Bann Teagan's recital of the circumstances surrounding his brother's final illness and death soon ended. Those gathered offered their personal condolences, then Queen Anora signalled for them to rise and proceed to the dining room. Bann Teagan offered her his arm, Bann Sighard moved over to do the same for Ser Cauthrien, and Nathaniel and Oswyn fell in behind them. Ser Lymon, Pierce and Varel had all rose to their feet as well, and brought up the rear.

Queen Anora sat at one end of the long table in the next room, Bann Teagan to her right and Bann Sighard on her left. Ser Cauthrien and Nathaniel took seats to the left as well, leaving Oswyn to sit to Teagan's right. Ser Lymon took a seat at a small separate table a short distance back from Anora's right side, where he could easily hear the conversation and record any salient points; Pierce signalled Varel to join him at the far end of the table from Anora. He set his satchel down on an empty chair beside him, and opened it, silently taking out a slant-topped wooden writing case which he carefully set down on the table before him. He lifted the lid, taking out several sheets of paper, and set them on the slanted top, then opened a drawer and took out a piece of chamois on which he set an ink bottle and a metal-nibbed dip pen. He took out a silverpoint pencil as well, and passed it and several sheets of paper to Varel. "Keep notes during the discussion," he said softly. "We'll go over them later together."

Varel nodded and set the paper and pencil before him, ready to use, and sat quietly, watching as Queen Anora rang a small bell beside her plate. Servants entered, and served food to the Queen and her guests. One of them set a platter down between Varel and Pierce, where they could both reach it – simple finger-foods, he saw, things they could eat with one hand while writing with the other – and set a small plate and folded cloth napkin to the left of each of them. Pierce nodded to the woman, muttering a word of thanks, and quickly served himself several of the items from the platter before spreading the napkin out over his lap. Varel did the same. He noticed that Ser Lymon was served the same simple fare as he and Pierce, and supposed they were all lucky to get fed at all, instead of being expected to wait and eat once their duties were done.

While the servers were there, the nobles continued with much the same small talk as they'd been engaged in out in the sitting room, with some comments on the superb quality of the food. Only once they'd left did Queen Anora set down her fork, and look around the table. "Some of you know why I have asked for this gathering; to some of you this will be news," she said, then looked past Bann Teagan at Oswyn. "Ser Oswyn – I asked you an important question several days ago. I would like to repeat it now, in front of witnesses, and hear your formal answer to my question."

Oswyn nodded gravely. Anora drew a deep breath, folding her hands together on the edge of the table before her, then spoke in a clear voice, pitched to carry throughout the room. "Ser Oswyn Aylridge, I ask if you are willing to marry me; to be Prince-Consort of Ferelden, and father of my heirs."

Silence fell. Nathaniel sat up straighter, face perfectly still but eyes bright with interest; Bann Teagan froze for a moment, then turned to look quickly back and forth between Anora and Oswyn, eyebrows raising in some slight astonishment, and then suddenly grinned. Bann Sighard looked quietly pleased; Ser Cauthrien lifted a single eyebrow, and smiled slightly.

Oswyn swallowed nervously. "I am so willing," he said, in an equally clear voice.

Varel suddenly realized he should be taking notes, as Pierce and Lymon already were, and hurriedly set pencil to paper, jotting down what had just occurred. Meanwhile, there was a brief outburst at the far end of the table, as three people tried to speak at once. Queen Anora lifted her hand for silence, then smiled warmly at Oswyn. "Then, pending approval of my nobles, I am pleased to accept you as my betrothed. We will begin the discussion of terms shortly. But first, I would ask for a toast," she said, and lifted her glass, the others hastily following suit. "To Ferelden's future."

"Ferelden's future," the others echoed, and all touched glasses and drank.

Varel scribbled notes, feeling thunderstruck. And he'd thought the news of Arl Eamon's death was an historic moment! This... this far surpassed that. And small wonder Oswyn had cautioned him to keep silent about it for now; this was no small news, and doubtless would require significant political maneuverings to arrange and finalize. Then he felt further thunderstruck, realizing he was now the servant of... well, not the King, but the next-closest thing there would be during Queen Anora's reign. Prince-Consort! And wouldn't _that_ set the cat among the pigeons, when all the other nobles learned of her intention...

At the head of the table Anora had brought the nobles back to order. She turned to look at Bann Teagan. "Well, Uncle?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Teagan smiled crookedly, and gave her a slight bow, head dipping deeply. "A very astute move, my dear," he said. "You retain your power, you soothe the fears of your more conservative nobles about the lack of Calanhad's blood in your line, and you tie a loyal line more closely to the throne," he said, nodding briefly to Bann Sighard. "There will be some opposition, of course, but then there are nobles who are so adamantly opposed to your rule, even now, that they would oppose you if you said the sun was hot, the south was cold, and the sea is wet."

That drew a brief snort from Ser Cauthrien, who nodded agreement. "It will bring a large portion of the more borderline nobles into line, however, and the remaining few are likely to be less vocal if their find their neighbours approving of Queen Anora's marriage."

"The Bannorn will be the main problem," Sighard said, which drew nods of agreement from everyone; the Bannorn was always the problem. "My own influence is mainly within the southern coalition, so Anora marrying my son will really only sway the southern bannorns and arlings to her support, and being from the south herself, and Teyrna of Gwaren, she's already doing quite well among all but the most conservative of them."

"Arlessa Katherine and Teyrn Fergus will certainly support Anora's decision to marry Oswyn," Nathaniel spoke up. "And between the two of them they control or can influence almost the entire north coast. Teagan, as Arl of Redcliffe, will have considerable sway in the west, as well."

Teagan nodded agreement. "Which leaves just the Bannorn. Is there no bone that can be thrown them to influence them? Perhaps offer some of the vacant seats elsewhere to some of their more sympathetic families?"

Anora frowned. "Perhaps, but I have so little support within the Bannorn – many of them still think of me as being the jumped-up peasant daughter of a southern poacher – that I fear it would be more likely to spread the problem further rather than ameliorate it. Also, I have plans for at least one of the more prestigious vacant seats," she added, then looked back and forth between Sighard and Oswyn.

"As Bann Sighard and I have already discussed privately, my marrying Oswyn assures him of grandchildren on the throne – or so one hopes, certainly – but also most likely denies him an heir for his own seat of Dragon's Peak. He has agreed to seek a second wife, in hopes of fathering additional heirs to Dragon's Peak, so that we will not lose the Aylridge line in the gaining of royal heirs."

Nathaniel and Teagan nodded understanding at this. Ser Cauthrien chewed her lip thoughtfully.

Anora turned to look at Oswyn, and smiled. "In agreeing to be my Prince-Consort, Oswyn is also losing out to some degree; he was raised to be his father's heir, to some day rule over the lands and people of Dragon's Peak. Since I am not offering him the Crown Regnant, he would have no political power, no say in the ruling of Ferelden other than whatever unofficial sway he held with me. I see this of a great waste of a loyal and talented man. I propose, therefore, to name Oswyn as Arl of Denerim."

Again a complete silence fell. Oswyn, Varel noted when he looked up from his rapid scribbling, was looking shocked; clearly this was something that Anora had not discussed with him first. Bann Sighard had a particularly pleased expression on his face – enough to make Varel feel certain that Anora had already broached this proposal to _him_ , at least, possibly that it had even been his own suggestion – while Cauthrien was inscrutable, and both Teagan and Nathaniel were nodding thoughtfully.

It was Bann Sighard who spoke next. "The seat has been empty since Rendon Howe's death, and the possible inheritance of it is thoroughly muddled, especially as the circumstances under which Howe himself, err... _acquired_ it... are highly questionable, given that Vaughan Kendall's recently deceased body was discovered in the dungeons under the estate following Howe's death – yet it had been Vaughan's supposed death within the alienage that had allowed Howe to inherit it after news of his cousin Urien's death at Ostagar reached the city. The closest living relative to either Urien or Rendon would of course be Nathaniel – but as he is now a Grey Warden, and also given the distrust many feel toward him because of his father's actions, it would be infeasible for him to inherit. Likewise it is impossible for his sister Delilah to inherit; the Landsmeet will not consent to a Howe holding a seat of such power, even if she had not made it plain that she has no wish to continue as a noble. Beyond that the line of inheritance is tangled, with numerous possible candidates with arguably equal claims to it, only some of whom are even resident in or loyal to Ferelden. The Aylridge line is just one of several families that could pursue a claim to it."

Anora spoke up again. "I could try and fill the seat now, with some reasonably loyal noble, but we are so short on those that I could only do it by rendering some other seat vacant in turn. And I _will not_ see such an influential seat pass to anyone whose loyalty to the Ferelden Crown, and more specifically to myself as Queen, is questionable. I could, of course, continue to hold it myself as a Crown property, but I have far larger concerns than even Denerim. I simply do not have the time to spare to give the arling the concerted attention and effort it requires. So what I propose is to make Oswyn the Arl of Denerim, for the span of his life, with the gift of the seat reverting to the crown on his death. It gives him work to do, power of his own, and a voice and vote in the Landsmeet; it sees to it that his skills and his loyalty are not wasted. And one hopes that by the time the seat is empty again, there will be _many_ suitable candidates for myself or my heirs to choose from to fill the seat."

Bann Teagan was nodding slowly. "I like the idea. It will reassure some of the nobles that Oswyn is not being reduced to – forgive me – a useless drone, valued only for his ability to father children who bear the blood of Calenhad. More, if he has his own power, people will consider him less likely to have any desire to take yours. Likely the only real opponents to the idea will be two types of people – those who wish to deny you any additional loyal votes, and those who believe they have an equally good claim on the seat and will feel hard done by to see it pass to another."

"There may be some small overlap between the two groups," Nathaniel said dryly, then smiled crookedly. "However, I believe the measure can be gotten past the Landsmeet easily enough, especially if you make it clear to some of the equally-good-claim but otherwise loyal holdouts that you are adamant on Oswyn holding Denerim, but have other seats in your gift, and that their families will still have an equally valid claim on the seat at some future date when the seat becomes vacant again."

"Bribe them, you mean," Teagan said warily.

"Yes. It's the cheapest way to do it," Nathaniel said, then explained further. "It's mostly small bannorns that are sitting empty, after all, or that will be empty once the handful of arlings that are or soon will be empty have been taken up by the next closest in line to them. I believe many of the few potential holdouts will take an easily obtained bannorn for their excess children now, and the hope of the Arling of Denerim for their grandchildren in future, over fighting for Denerim now with only small chance of winning it. It gives their families the length of Oswyn's life to marry to advantage with an eye on improving their standing for it, after all. _And_ additional reason to prove their loyalty to the crown, in the hope of bettering their chance at gaining the seat in future."

"I like the way you think," Ser Cauthrien said approvingly to Nathaniel, and nodded decisively as she turned to Anora. "His suggestion could sway several votes, and with as many votes as you already hold in your own person or among your closest allies, it should enable the measure to pass relatively easily."

Anora nodded, then looked to Oswyn again. "Have you any objections to the proposal? I will not pursue it if you would rather not become mired in the politics of the situation."

Oswyn frowned briefly before speaking. "I... cannot say that I am entirely comfortable with the idea. The issues of my health, and my inability to wield a weapon, mean that I will likely face opposition in merely becoming your consort, much less in acquiring the title and power of being Arl of Denerim. Yet..." he paused, looking thoughtful for a moment, then smiled, looking at least a little excited. "Yet I cannot deny that I would prefer to have responsibilities of my own, and this would certainly give me many of them! There is so much that needs doing in finishing the rebuilding of the city, and seeing that it prospers and is peaceful. It is something to which I could most happily devote my energies."

Anora smiled warmly at him, and the others around the table smiled as well at his earnest words. "Good. Well then, there remains only to discuss the time-line for events. The fall assizes start soon, which will draw many nobles to Denerim. Even more than usual will likely come, in order to take part in the memorial ceremony for Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan's confirmation in the title. I would like to make the first informal announcement during that period, get all of the political side of things taken care of, and then formalize the engagement at the Satinalia Ball, aiming for a First Day wedding. Hopefully without a formal Landsmeet being required, though I will call for one if we cannot manage a clear majority among those here anyway."

"That's a rather rapid timetable," Teagan pointed out, frowning slightly.

Anora shrugged. "I am not getting any younger; as several of my nobles delight in reminding me, I have only limited time in which to bear heirs. If I thought all the arrangements could be completed any faster, I would do so. I am sure my dressmaker will be overcome enough as it is by the thought of having to produce a suitable gown in only four month's time," she added with an amused smile.

The talk turned to specifics after that; discussion of what family lines had claims to which seats, who was most likely to oppose either Oswyn's elevation to Arl, or his marrying Anora, or both. Whether it was more politic to make the unofficial announcement at the beginning of the assizes, and then feel out what opinions and positions nobles were taking, or to try to feel them out first and then make the announcement later in the assizes. And so on, and so forth, right through until wine after the remains of dessert had been cleared away, the flow of conversation and debate broken only whenever servants entered the room.

Varel's head was whirling by the time the extended luncheon ended. Pierce reclaimed the silverpoint and papers, locking them safely away in his lap desk before returning it to his satchel. "We'll find time to go over your notes either later this afternoon, or early tomorrow," he whispered to Varel as they waited while Anora and her guests said their farewells to each other.

The party soon broke up, Teagan remaining to talk further with Anora about Eamon's death and his own ascension to the Arling of Redcliffe, Ser Cauthrien heading off on her own business, and Nathaniel excusing himself to go drop in on the Warden compound while he was here at the palace anyway. Varel and Pierce followed Sighard and Oswyn out, Sighard's guards rejoining their small party as they left the palace.

The walk back to the Aylridge townhouse was a silent one, Sighard and Oswyn both lost in their separate thoughts.


	32. Chapter 32

"I did like the servants' quarters, very much, and the workrooms too... but..." Myra trailed off, frowning.

"But?" Varel asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

"But. I'm still so _new_ to Denerim... I've barely had any time to actually meet anyone else here in the alienage, much less make friends. I'm wondering if it might be better off if I stay here for now. Live here, work here – apart from training a knitter or two for Bann Sighard, if we do come to some arrangement over that, anyway – take the time to get to know people."

"Set roots," Varel said, smiling fondly at her over their breakfast table. A table lit by candlelight, it being well before dawn, as he was due to be at the Aylridge townhouse to wake Oswyn not long after sun-up.

"Yes, set roots," she agreed. "Do you mind? I know it would either mean you sleeping alone at the townhouse a lot, or having to do a lot of walking back and forth..."

Varel smiled. "I don't mind. Actually, I can't tell you why yet... but I have a feeling any quarters we'd have taken in the townhouse would only be temporary anyway. So it makes just as much sense for you to settle in here for now, rather than start to settle in there only to be uprooted again."

"Oh," Myra said, and frowned slightly. "He's happy with your work? It's not that he's going to let you go, is it?"

Varel grinned. "No, he's quite happy with my work. In fact I'm going to have a lot of it to do over the coming months – plenty of training to learn how to do all the things I don't know how to yet, for one."

"Oh, good. Is he planning to go back to the bannorn soon then...? Wait, no, nevermind. You said you can't tell me. I'll stop trolling for hints," she said, and smiled in a way which made Varel laugh, then stand up and lean over the table to give her an approving kiss.

"Thank you," he said as he resumed his seat. "I promise, I'll tell you the minute Oswyn says it's all right to. It won't be more than a month, perhaps two at most. And more likely the month, if that. Anyway... I'll ask for the single quarters for now. I suspect I'll end up sleeping there most nights," he added regretfully. "Likely there's going to be quite a few late nights and early mornings for Oswyn for a while, and that means even later nights and earlier mornings for me. But I'll come home whenever I can. I'm just sorry we won't be able to see very much of each other for a while."

Myra nodded. "It's still more of you than I'd see if you'd gone for a mercenary again. And it's not like there's anything that's stopping me from coming to visit you in your nice big bed at the townhouse occasionally, is there?"

Varel laughed, then grinned at her again. "I suppose not. I'll check though, just in case there's rules against it. I'd be surprised if there were – the Aylridge's seem to treat their servants very well, by everything I've heard so far."

They finished their breakfast, then Varel headed off into the pre-dawn greyness outside, just one of many elves setting out for their work at that hour. Several others were headed towards the noble district as well, and they walked more-or-less together, men and women splitting off to head toward specific businesses or households as they went. Only a scant handful were left by the time Varel nodded his farewell to the group and turned aside to go around back to the servant's entrance of the townhouse.

Candles and oil lamps were burning in the lower reaches of the house, the servants either already busy with the first of their daily chores, or grabbing a hurried bite in the kitchen, where the cook and her assistants were starting work on making breakfast for Bann Sighard, Oswyn, and the upper servants. Varel asked for and was quickly provided with a tray of freshly brewed tea and fixings for it, including a small plate of cookies from yesterday's baking, and carried the lot off to Oswyn's room, quietly setting it down on the bedside table before going to open the curtains and let in the dawn light.

Oswyn was stirring before he even reached the first window, and had made an appreciative sound and grabbed the first cookie from the tray by the time Varel was opening the second set of curtains. He ate it in two big bites.

"You're going to get crumbs in your bed, eating it like that," Varel pointed out, concealing a smile as Oswyn snorted and promptly grabbed and ate a second one the same way.

"Don't care," Oswyn said through a mouth full of crumbs. "The maid will just have to sweep them out when she makes the bed. Mmmm, that tea smells good – pour me a cup, will you? My hands are mysteriously full of cookies."

Varel laughed, and stopped at the tray to pour and sweeten a cup for Oswyn – and filch one of the last cookies himself – before heading over to open the armoire and select an outfit for Oswyn. Casual again, since he wasn't expected at the palace today, but dressier than yesterday, since this one would be worn outside of the house.

After Oswyn was dressed – and had drunk a second cup of tea, as well as finishing off the cookies, and saying he liked the idea of waking to food and tea at hand very much indeed – they went to the dining hall. Varel managed Oswyn's plate for him and then, once he was seated, put together a small plate of things for himself, and joined him at the table.

"That's not a very big breakfast," Oswyn said, frowning at him.

"I dined with Myra before coming here. This is just extra," Varel told him, neatly cutting a sausage into bite-sized pieces.

"Ahh, right. What did she think of the servants' quarters yesterday? And the workrooms?"

"She liked them very much," Varel said, then explained to him her thoughts on staying on in the alienage for now. And his own guess that things might work out just as well that way, anyway.

Oswyn grunted. "Huh. Good point. And you're right... we've yet to talk it over, but most likely I will go to live with her, afterwards. And even if I don't... well, if I get the Arling, I suppose one of the things I'll need to do is rebuild the estate." He made a face at that, clearly not enthralled with the idea.

Bann Sighard came into the room just then, ending their conversation for now. Father and son discussed their differing plans for the day; Sighard was making arrangements to hold a ball at the start of the fall assizes, and planned to spend the day on sorting out invitations, with Pierce's assistance. "Don't be surprised if the ones with marriageable daughters think they're there on your behalf; I'd rather not trumpet it around just yet that it's _me_ that's looking," Sighard said, grimacing slightly, which made Oswyn smile.

Nathaniel and Levyn were due to head back to Vigil's Keep later that day, though Nathaniel promised they'd return soon to continue his treatments. While Levyn finished his examination of Oswyn, and did a little additional healing on his wrists and neck, Nate and Varel discussed dagger-work and archery, Oswyn occasionally chiming in with comments. The wardens stayed for lunch, then departed, promising to be back in a few days to resume treatment.

After lunch Oswyn decided that he'd like to spend the afternoon travelling the city, observing the reconstruction work – or lack of it, in some areas – to try and get an idea of what needed to be done and where in order to get things moving properly. Varel was to accompany him, as well as a pair of guards. "We'll stop at the market first of all," Oswyn said. "I'd like to pick up a few things."

The 'few things' turned out to be a considerable amount, and most of it for Varel. A small slant-topped lap desk and a satchel to carry it in, supplies of paper, ink, and so forth to fill it with, an engagement diary – two of those, a fancy one for Oswyn and a far plainer one for Varel's personal use – a blank address book, several small notebooks, and a large blank journal for Oswyn's own use in note-taking. Remembering that Varel had map-mapping skills Oswyn also purchased the things needed for that – a sheaf of thick watercolour paper, a backing board, a set of pressed cakes of watercolour paint, brushes, and so on.

They wandered the market for a while after Oswyn was done, looking at the rebuilding work that had been done there, Oswyn gossiping occasionally with shopkeepers about their buildings, and did they own or rent, and what did they think of the rebuilt market, and about how progress was going in other areas of the city. He purchased further odds and ends to keep them talking, paying to have them delivered to the townhouse.

They stopped for dinner at the Gnawed Noble, the pair of guards disappearing off to a small room in back while Varel stayed with Oswyn. There were a handful of nobles and a lot of merchants also drinking or dining there, and Oswyn spent some time after they'd eaten in moving around the room to chat briefly with anyone he knew.

He was clearly flagging by the time he summoned his guards and left the tavern, and didn't protest when Varel suggested they should return to the townhouse. "I'm going to take a nap and then write up some notes of my own about what I learned today," Oswyn told Varel once they'd got back. "Pierce should be free by now to see you. Oh, and you should let Janie know which rooms you want, so she can see they're made ready. I'll ring for you when I'm ready to go to bed. I suppose you'll want to go home again tonight?"

"Yes. I'll need to pack some of my own things to bring here. And say a proper good-bye to Myra before I move in. I'd still like to go home to visit her whenever I have the time."

Oswyn nodded. "Of course. Just make sure to let me know when you're not going to be here, if you can. Leave word with one of the guards if you can't reach me directly for some reason."

Varel nodded, then headed off to find Janie first of all, and then Pierce.

* * *

Pierce was working in a small room upstairs, a plain office adjacent to and connecting with Bann Sighard's private study. He smiled when Varel entered, and set aside the journal he'd been writing in. "Ah, good. Have a seat, please... we have a number of things to discuss, you and I. Lessons, for one – and not just with me. Ser Oswyn gave me a list last night of skills you will likely require as his aide, as well as his best guess as to where you stood on each of them. I've spent some time this afternoon making arrangements for you to receive suitable training in the areas he and Bann Sighard felt that it was most important for your to advance in. Of which secretarial skills are just one."

Varel nodded as he took a seat across from Pierce. "Thank you for doing so," he said.

Pierce made a dismissive gesture, but smiled slightly at his words. "No thanks are really necessary – it is part of my job to make such arrangements for my master, as it will be yours to do so on young Ser Oswyn's behalf. To start with, while Bann Sighard remains here you will be receiving secretarial training from myself. If such is not complete by the time he returns to the bannorn, Ser Lymon has agreed to continue it; a great honour, but when I approached him about suitably discreet candidates he made the offer himself, doubtless due in part to the importance Ser Oswyn will soon have. It might be best, in fact, to purposefully have you need at least some final training from him; it will smooth your way with a number of the other secretaries for you to have been in his tutelage, however briefly; a seal of approval from one of our most honoured members, as it were."

Varel nodded. "If it will make things easier for me, I have no objections. I know that... well, that my being an elf will present some difficulties with some of the duties Oswyn wishes me to undertake for him."

"Quite so," Pierce agreed. "Which brings us to one such example – his desire for you to act as a discrete bodyguard and carry a sword at times. While there has in fact been no law of Ferelden at any time forbidding elves from carrying weapons within the city limits, the Kendalls family enforced such a rule on the city as their domain, and Arl Howe continued the tradition until his death; as such you are likely to face some hostility or even active confrontation for carrying a sword openly. Bann Sighard pointed out that the one place in Ferelden where such a law has ever been applied is the palace itself, where only those with royal permission are allowed to carry a weapon, generally limited to the guards and trusted nobles, and on occasion extended to other trusted servants as a mark of favour. Queen Anora has graciously agreed to name you as such; she has signed a royal warrant granting you permission to carry weapons not just in her presence, but anywhere in her realm of Ferelden. You will carry this at all times when armed and may show it to anyone who challenges your right to bear such arms," Pierce said, taking a folded parchment out of his desk and sliding it across the surface to Varel.

Varel was open-mouthed with astonishment for a moment, then slowly picked up the warrant, his hand trembling. "I am..." he stopped and swallowed, mouth gone dry. "I am greatly honoured."

"Yes, you are," Pierce agreed dryly, then suddenly smiled. "Our masters both think very highly of you, Varel. And Queen Anora is willing to trust in Ser Oswyn's belief that you are indeed a trustworthy enough person to be given this honour. Do not fail his trust in you."

"I won't," Varel said fervently, then gave a sudden brief laugh. "This all seems so unreal... I was just an unemployed mercenary a few days ago... and now, all of this!" He stopped and shook his head, bemused for a moment.

"It is a lot of changes, both for you and for Ser Oswyn," Pierce agreed, then leaned back in his chair, frowning thoughtfully and twiddling with his pen. "Speaking strictly on my own behalf, and not as Bann Sighard's secretary – since he encountered you in the spring, Oswyn has made greater steps towards recovery than he did in all the time since the Blight. Which may just mean he was _ready_ to recover, or may be because you've been a good influence on him, whether you meant to be or not. A good many of us are relived to see this happening; Ser Oswyn is well-loved by his father's people. Serve him well, aid him to the best of your abilities, and you'll find there's quite a lot of us who don't care two figs over whether your ears are rounded or pointed."

Varel nodded slowly. "Thank you. I will do my best," he agreed.

Pierce smiled slightly and then straightened up again, setting his pen aside. "Good. Now... back to the subject at hand. You'll need proper training in how to actually use your sword, and also in what to watch for as a bodyguard. For lessons in sword-work you'll be reporting to the day Guard-Captain at the palace; he'll oversee your training and see that you progress to suitably skilled trainers as needed. For specifics related to bodyguard work you'll be seeing a specialist, I am given to understand, whom Arlessa Katherine will be supplying. Warden Nathaniel will bring him when he next returns with Warden Levyn. For manners, deportment, heraldry, genealogy, geography, history and mathematics a tutor is being hired from the chantry."

"Maker," Varel muttered, starting to feel overwhelmed again.

Pierce gave him a very small smile, looking amused. "Quite. This is why the majority of secretaries are either Chantry-trained orphans, or are minor nobility themselves – it will take you years to learn all of it. You will eventually need to know everything from the proper titles with which to address a letter to anyone in the kingdom, to why not to seat the Bann of Eaforth and the Bann of Thistleridge at the same table. And be able to recognize the crests, signets, colours, or other symbols of all major and many minor families at a glance. And so forth and so on. I've books here," he turned a little in his chair to wave at a fully-laden bookcase standing nearby, "that cover most of the heraldry and genealogy, as well as a good chunk of the history, at least in brief. You're free to borrow and read any and all of them. Just be sure to reshelve the books where you found them. Once you've an office of your own we can make arrangements for a like set for your own use, though that may well wait until Ser Oswyn has decided on a residence."

"I doubt he'll continue here," Pierce added, sounding a little wistful all of a sudden. "Ferelden's gain is Dragon's Peak's loss. One hopes that Bann Sighard will do as well with a new heir as he's done with his current one. Anyway... where were we..."

"Chantry tutor," Varel prompted.

"Yes. And the final and likely simplest task you'll need to learn – how to serve properly as a manservant. Ser Oswyn generally prefers quite casual dress, but he's likely to need to dress a lot more formally in future. You'll need to learn how to deal with all types and styles of clothing, how to work all the different fastenings, what knots are in style with particular items, what outfits and colours are suitable for what occasions, and so on and so forth. The maids and seamstresses can teach you much of the basics, and Bann Sighard's manservant will cover the more advanced topics."

Pierce slid a sheet of paper across the table. "Here is a list of everything you'll be needing to learn, and who will be teaching you what. And this is a list of the times that have been tentatively arranged for you to have first lessons with each of them. You'll be responsible for arranging further lessons yourself, working around the times when Ser Oswyn has need of your services. I recommend you concentrate firstly on those who are only available for a limited amount of time, such as myself and Albert – that's Bann Sighard's manservant. And the sword-training, of course. It's not expected that such training will actually be necessary, but better to have it done and not needed than needed and not yet done."

Varel nodded agreement, folded the papers together with the Royal warrant, and slipped them into a side-pocket of his satchel to look over later. "Do we have time still for my first lesson in secretarial skills?"

Pierce smiled again. "Yes. And we'll start by looking over your notes from yesterday's luncheon, and comparing them with my own," he said, picking up a leather folder from one side of his desk and opening it in front of him. "Bring your chair around to this side; easiest to work side-by side. We'll see how much we can get done before you need to go help Ser Oswyn retire for the night."

Varel did so, certain that it would be only the first of many very long and busy days for him.


	33. Chapter 33

Oswyn circulated around the lower floor of the townhouse, smiling at and chatting with his father's guests. He leaned on his cane rather more than was strictly necessary, having found it made an excellent excuse to avoid dancing with anyone, something he had no interest in. His father was busily wandering around too, stopping to chat seriously with old friends, to exchange flattery with the older women, and dance with all the younger ones. His father was not the only widowed noble making the rounds of the place; there were a number of them, including several long-time bachelors. Arl Teagan was the centre of an entire knot of ladies of all ages vying for his attention in one corner of the dining-hall-turned-ballroom, being by far the most eligible bachelor present.

He found the event tiring, himself – too long on his feet, too many people around, too many of whom he caught staring at him. Oh, they tried to polite about it, in the most part, just sneaking glances out of the corners of their eyes, but he knew rumours had spread during his long convalescence about just what manner of injuries he'd sustained in Rendon Howe's hands. A number of the guests couldn't quite stop themselves from peering more obviously at him, looking for any visible scarring, any suggestion of deformation or lack in his form or carriage.

He withdrew from the overcrowded dining hall as soon as he reasonably could, make an excuse to the group he had been talking with about wanting to go somewhere there was less risk of being knocked off his feet by dancers. Which had the benefit of being partially true – his cane had been knocked against several times already that evening.

The hallways outside was just as crowded. He worked his way along it, stopping to chat with people at several points, until he finally reached the study. It was far less crowded in there, and quieter, mostly a group of older men and women sitting and talking over cards at a large table occupying the middle of the room where the seating normally was, a few others standing near it and watching – and talking – rather than playing. He stopped to greet them, briefly, then made an excuse about needing to rest his legs for a little while, and withdrew to where the seats were, clustered in small groups along the wall near the windows, only some of them occupied.

As he approached a chair well apart from where anyone else was already seated, in a corner between a bookcase and a window, he realized there was someone already there, sitting in the window seat, half-hidden by the curtains. He paused for a moment, then recognized who it was, and continued on towards the seat. "Good evening, Connor," he said. "Enjoying the party?"

Connor Guerrin pushed the edge of the curtain aside with one hand, leaning over a little to look at him. "Not really," he said.

Oswyn grinned. "You're too honest for your own good, you know. What you're _supposed_ to say is something like 'Yes, very much indeed.' Even if the way you're hiding back there tells me you're no more enjoying it than I am. Come out from there and sit with me for a little while, people will leave us alone if we look like we're having a private conversation."

That drew a brief grin from the boy. He tossed his unevenly-cut blond hair back from his eyes, and scrambled out of the window embrasure, taking the seat next to Oswyn. He looked very little like a young nobleman, with his messy hair and chewed nails; he was at that stage of growing up where he was all long skinny limbs, big hands, adam's apple, and awkwardness. He was reasonably well-dressed, at least, Teagan having seen to it that he had a proper wardrobe for his visit to Denerim. Though in the way of young teenage boys he somehow managed to make it look as if he'd slept in his clothes even though he'd only put them on an hour or two earlier; they were wrinkled, his collar pulled askew, with smears of dust on the backside and knees.

Oswyn remember being scolded for looking much the same in his own youth – and being equally as ungainly-looking at that age – and had to hide a smile. "How are you finding Denerim so far?" he asked.

"It's all right," Connor said, and shrugged, then folded his legs up in front of him, feet on the edge of the seat, long arms wrapped around them, resting his chin on his knees. "I miss the Tower," he admitted, sounding somehow both wistful and a touch sulky. "I'm just another apprentice there. People don't look at me like they're scared of me. Or talk of me or my parents as if I'm not right there, hearing what they say," he added, face clouding slightly with suppressed anger.

Oswyn frowned. "Saying unkind things, I take it?"

"Yes. Things about my mother, and how it's because of her that I turned out to be a mage, and that the deaths at Redcliffe during the Blight were all her fault. Or how my father tried to put a puppet-King on the throne so he could become the power behind it."

Oswyn nodded. He'd heard such rumours himself – and knew that, as with almost all rumours, there were at least some grains of truth at the core of them. Which is what gave most rumours such life – the bit of truth buried within them. Just like the stories about his own physical condition – there was some truth in those, too, much as he hated to acknowledge it.

He found himself feeling a surge of fellow-feeling for the boy; Connor's life had been changed by the events of the Blight year just as badly as his own life had been. Arguably even worse. Connor, too, had lost the life he'd been raised towards; instead of growing up to be his father's heir, becoming the Arl of Redcliffe, looking after his father's people... he'd lost it all. Home, lands and title – all now his uncle's instead of his – and had been the cause of the deaths of so terribly many of the very people he'd been supposed to grow up to be the protector of. He would likely spend the rest of his life immured in the tower, unless he was lucky enough to become one of the handful of mages well-trusted enough – and with valuable enough skills – to be allowed out.

"What's it like, in the Tower?" Oswyn asked, genuinely curious now. "Do you like it there? Do you have friends?"

"Mmmm. Well... I didn't like it at first," Connor admitted slowly. "I missed my mother. And my father. I didn't even get to stay until he was better... I was packed off to the tower as soon as mother's burning was over. And I was scared, a little. I'd had a teacher – an apostate – he'd escaped from the Tower, he told me once. He'd told me a little about life in the Tower, when I'd asked, probably more things than he should have. He missed it sometimes, he said – his friends there, anyway – but there was a lot of bad things that could happen too. They were going to make him tranquil – you know what that is, right? – rather than Harrow him. That's why he ran away."

With a jolt Oswyn realized that it was Levyn – Jowan – that Connor was speaking of. "I know what a tranquil is, yes," Oswyn said slowly. "And I've heard something of Harrowing. Does it scare you, at all? Knowing you'll have to be Harrowed?"

Connor gave a short bitter laugh, then smiled at Oswyn. "It did, beforehand. I've already _been_ Harrowed; they did it as soon as I was old enough that they could legally do it. Scared I might become an abomination again, I guess. One of the fastest harrowings they've ever had, they told me afterwards," he added. His expression went suddenly cold and hard; for a moment he looked entirely adult, not at all the gangling youth he still was. "No demon will ever fool me again. I remember the cost of their lies all too well."

Oswyn nodded, slowly. "No more than I'll ever accept a drink from a random stranger, I expect," he said softly.

One corner of Connor's mouth lifted slightly. "Yes. _You_ understand," he said, in the way that meant he'd met all too many people who didn't. He pursed his lips for a moment, looking thoughtful. "It's like something father said to me once. I'd done something foolish, got in trouble for it, and was mad about being punished. So he told me a story of back when he was fighting the Orlesians to get Redcliffe back. He did something stupid too, he explained, and almost got himself captured as a result; he escaped the trap they'd laid for him, but he was injured because of it. 'You learn from the pain of your mistakes, boy,' he told me. 'And you don't ever repeat them, if you can.' What happened to the villagers, to my mother – this is a mistake I can never forget. And will _never_ let myself repeat."

His voice broke on the final words. Oswyn reached out and squeezed his shoulder comfortingly, as the boy curled up tightly, face hidden against his raised knees, then let his hand drop back to his own lap. He waited through the short-lived bout of quiet sniffles, and silently handed Connor a handkerchief when he eventually lifted his head again.

"Sorry," Connor croaked, before wiping at his face.

Oswyn smiled warmly at him. "Don't be. Tell me more about the Tower, if you'd like – or you can just tell me to leave you alone, if you'd rather not."

Connor's mouth crooked again. "All right," he said. And did, talking about how alone and scared he'd felt when he'd first gone there, and how long until he'd finally made a few friends. "It's not bad, most of the time," he said. "Some of the templars can be a bit scary sometimes. Especially the older ones, who were there during the Blight when the tower fell to blood magic for a while," he said, then stopped, chewing his lip for a moment. "Two of my friends... they were there during that. One was lucky; she ended up being swept up by a group of mages who were making a fighting retreat down through the tower. They protected as many of the apprentices as they could find. Which wasn't all of them – most of them were killed. The other, he ended up hiding somewhere. Nothing found him, but... he saw some of what happened, to the mages and templars. He has nightmares, sometimes. He's always scared, and doesn't talk much to anyone. And he won't ever talk about what happened; about what he saw. I wish sometimes I could help him."

"Sometimes things hurt us too much for us to want to talk about them, ever," Oswyn said. "It's like it makes it come back – the fear, the pain. But it _does_ help to talk about it, once we find someone we can trust enough to listen." He stopped suddenly, and flushed, realizing what he'd just said – had confessed, really.

"You'd know," Connor said, very quietly.

"Yes. I do know," he agreed, then sighed, and rubbed at his eyes for a moment, feeling suddenly very old and very tired. "Be patient with him – your friend. Don't push him, but let him know, somehow, that if he ever needs to talk – that you'll listen. That you won't judge him over things he had no way of preventing or controlling. And maybe someday he will feel safe enough to talk to you about it. Or someone else; don't be insulted if it's someone else he comes to trust first."

"I wouldn't be," Connor exclaimed. "I'd try not to be, anyway. I'd just be glad he was getting better."

Oswyn smiled at him. "Good," he said, then grimaced. "And I suppose we'd better stop hiding in the corner and go and circulate a little. Or your uncle and my father will both be disappointed in us for not enjoying the party."

Connor grimaced, but lower his feet to the floor and stood us, as Oswyn levered himself stiffly to his feet. "I won't have to dance, will I?" he asked, a touch plaintively.

Oswyn grinned. "No. Not unless you decide you want to, though I'm sure it would make your uncle happy if you did."

"Then I suppose I should. At least once," Connor said, sounding displeased with the prospect.

Oswyn led the way back toward the dining hall. The hallway was considerably less crowded than it had been earlier; the early departers having already left, and almost everyone else now being crammed into the dining hall to either watch or partake in the dancing.

Connor stopped him just outside the door, catching at his arm for a moment. "Oswyn... can I come talk to you again? Before I go back to the Tower, if there's time."

Oswyn gave him a surprised look, then smiled. "Certainly. When do you go back?"

"I'm not sure – soon, probably. I think I've already been here longer than Greagoir meant to allow. Two or three days, maybe."

"All right. I'll let your uncle know that I've invited you back, so he knows you have my permission to come see me here. And I'll let my secretary know to admit you, if you do come. I'm usually out in the mornings, so afternoons would be better."

Connor grinned. "Thanks," he said.

* * *

A circle dance was in progress as the two of them entered, two great rings of people around the outside progressing hand-in-hand in differing directions, around four much smaller rings rotating within, each revolving around four pairs of dancers. One pair was Arl Teagan dancing with a rather striking redhead with a neck like a swan and a very graceful carriage; another of the four was Oswyn's father and a very young blonde girl – surely too young to be under consideration as a future bride, she looked to be at least two or three years younger than Oswyn himself.

He and Connor found their way to a corner of the room, safely out of the way of much of the crowding. Connor, being both smaller and more agile, dived into the crowd again once Oswyn had found them a place, half out of sight behind a pilaster, and soon returned with a couple of mugs of iced punch from the refreshments table, as well as two napkins full of little oddments to eat. It was very hot in the room from so many bodies, so Oswyn was very thankful for the drink.

Arl Teagan had apparently spotted them at some point; once the dance ended, he excused himself to his partner, then threaded his way through the crowd to them. "Ser Oswyn," he said, bowing nicely to him. "I see you've found my wayward nephew. Where have you been hiding all evening, Connor?"

"He's been keeping me company," Oswyn said firmly, wanting to head off any scolding the boy might be due. "And saving my legs by fetching for the both of us," he added, lifting his mug and the napkin in illustration.

"Ah. Well, that's all right then. Enjoying yourself, Connor?"

"Yes, Uncle, very much indeed," Connor said. Oswyn had to hide another smile, hearing his earlier words echoed.

"Good. I'm glad to hear it. You should enjoy yourself while you're here; meet some young ladies your age, do some dancing. Anyway, I should get back to the dancing myself; I have at least three more young ladies I owe dances to before I can take a real break. I'll look for you then, all right?"

"Yes, Uncle."

Teagan smiled warmly at Connor, bowed again to Oswyn, and headed back out into the room, head lifted and looking around for his next partner. Connor waited until he was safely out of earshot, then snorted. "Meet some young ladies my age... as if any of them would want to meet me," he said, a touch of bitterness in his voice again. "Or if their parents would let them dance with me. A known mage? He's not thinking."

Oswyn glanced at him, then turned his attention back to the room. "He cares for you very much, you know. He wasn't happy about being made Arl in your place. And he will always feel that it is _your place_ he's in, not his own."

Connor sighed, and leaned back against the wall. "I know. I just wish he'd understand... or at least not try to pretend things away. I'm not a noble any more. I will never be one. And..." He paused for a long moment, looking unhappy. When he spoke again, his voice was very quiet. "I'm actually glad it's him that's the Arl, and not me. How could I ever claim to be Arl of Redcliffe, after what I did to the people there? And he was there, doing his best to protect them. They love him. Most of them are scared of me; or hate me. Even the ones here in Denerim; I can see it in their eyes, in the way they won't look right at me. Or flinch away from me, or scowl when they don't think I can see it. Most of them I've known since I was a child; but when they look at me, they don't see little Connor Guerrin any more; they see the mage that slaughtered half of Redcliffe."

Oswyn wished there was something he could do or say to make the boy feel better. But nothing sprang easily to mind, and while he was still floundering in his thoughts, his father appeared out of the crowd and walked over to them, smiling and dabbing a little perspiration off of his face. "There you are!" Bann Sighard said, sounding equal parts pleased and exasperated. "I saw you earlier and then you vanished again. Spotted you again while I was in the middle of dancing with the younger Murrell girl; her mother was very disappointed not to see you about. I explained that you don't dance any more, and danced with her myself to make up for it."

"I take it that was the very young blonde you were with in the circle dance?"

"Yes. Too young for me, of course. A pity the older girl is already engaged; she's more the age I need to look at. Anyway, how are things? Enjoying yourself?" he asked.

"Well enough. Connor and I have been chatting," he added, gesturing to the youth, who was doing his best to be pretending to watch the dancing rather than listening in on their conversation.

"Hello, Connor," Sighard said, smiling and dipping a shallow bow to the boy, who bowed shyly in return. "I was just remarking to your uncle earlier how much you've grown. You have quite the look of your father when he was a younger man, you know – he can't have been much older than you are now when he returned from the Free Marches near the end of the rebellion, come to think of it."

"Three or four years older, I think," Connor said politely. "I remember him once mentioning he arrived back in Ferelden around the time when the usurper, Meghren, was killed. He'd have been 17 or 18 that year."

"Ah, yes, that sounds about right," Sighard agreed. "And then it took him five years of hard fighting to get the last of the Orlesians out of Redcliffe; the occupation may have been pretty much over once Meghren died, but the clean up certainly took a good time beyond that point. And Redcliffe Castle was such an easily defensible point, it was near-impossible to winkle them out of it; it was a damned long siege before they finally gave in. The place is nearly self-sufficient."

Connor nodded, looking interested now. "I remember father talking about that, once – about how the siege only ended once they'd managed to deny the lake to the castle inhabitants, since otherwise they could have held out there forever, between the gardens and the orchard, and fishing in the lake. But without the fishing, they didn't have enough food. Mother always blamed the siege for her dislike of fish."

Sighard laughed. "I remember her mentioning that once. 'Fish, fish, fish, day in and day out!' And that most of what little poultry they had in the castle needed to be kept for their eggs, so only on rare occasion did they slaughter even as much as an old hen to cook up."

Connor grinned, clearly pleased to hear the anecdote about his mother.

"Well, I should get back to the dancing," Sighard said regretfully. "You two stay out of trouble, eh? And don't eat too many little iced cakes," he added, stealing one from the napkin in Oswyn's hand and popping it into his own mouth. "You'll get fat."

"We'll try," Oswyn assured him very solemnly, smiling as his father walked off.

"You and your father really get along well," Connor said a touch enviously after he'd left. "My father would never have joked with me like that."

"I suppose we've always been close," Oswyn agreed. "And there's not quite as large an age difference between us as there was between yourself and your father; I was born when my father wasn't much older than I am now."

Connor nodded. "I know mother and father tried for years before they had me; I remember overhearing one of the maids once, talking about how she lost baby after baby before finally having me. And that people were pushing my father to put her aside as barren, before I was finally born."

"That must have been very hard on him," Oswyn said quietly. "I remember my father once mentioning about how very much the two of them loved each other; that she'd loved him enough to give up her family and her country, and stay here in Ferelden. And that even then, it was years before they were finally able to marry, because there was so much hatred and distrust of anyone Orlesian."

Connor sighed. "I wish... I wish I'd had a chance to know my parents as an adult. It changes things, doesn't it? Like how much they'll tell you, about themselves, and their past, and how they're feeling."

"I suppose it does," Oswyn agreed. "I sometimes wish my mother had lived; that I'd got to know her as well as I know father. He talks of her, sometimes – not very often – and I can hear the love and pride in his voice, even after all these years without her. Anyway, this subject is getting far too serious for this venue. Why don't I introduce you to the daughter of a friend of mine, who can dance with you to make your uncle happy. And then you can see about finding us more cakes, to make us fat."

Connor grinned. "All right," he agreed.


	34. Chapter 34

He proved to be right about Katy not staying away from Denerim – the next time Nathaniel and Levyn arrived at the townhouse, it was with Katy in tow. While Nate and the mage carried their belongings upstairs to the room that was designated as theirs during their stays, Katy hauled Oswyn off into the study for a private conversation.

"Anora told me the news, of course, to explain why she wanted to borrow Zevran," she said, and gave him both a delighted smile and a hug that nearly knocked him off his feet. "I'm so pleased for both of you! I'm sure she could have continued Queening quite well without any need for a husband, but... it's nice to have someone around to offer support, too, and to listen patiently when you really need to rant for a bit."

Oswyn smiled, quite certain that for her that someone was Zevran. They might merely be lovers and not actually in love, as she'd told him after he'd first met the elf, but it was clear that the two of them were friends, and both respected and cared for each other. "Has he come along with you as well?" he asked.

"Yes, though he's gone on ahead with our things to the Grey Warden compound at the castle. He said to tell you he'd be by tomorrow to work with Varel further, and to let me know if tomorrow wouldn't work for whatever reason."

"No, tomorrow should be just fine," Oswyn reassured her. "Levyn is tackling one of the harder jobs this time around; my knees. I'll be flat on my back for the next two to four days," he added with a grimace. "And thank you for sending him; it's making a great deal of difference for me."

Katy smiled again, looking pleased. "I just wish I had a dozen more like him. But the chantry is stingy about releasing mages to become Grey Wardens; I've only got the one healer right now. Though I have two others who are very good at the more destructive sorts of magics; a Dalish elf I picked up shortly after taking over as Arlessa of Amaranthine, and a Circle mage I managed to pry out of Greagoir and Ivring's hands a year ago. A pity Wynne wouldn't stay, she's an excellent healer but has a bad case of itchy feet. Last I heard from her, she was puttering around somewhere up in Nevarra, and thinking of visiting Orlais for a while."

"Wynne?" he asked, not placing the name at all.

"Sorry, I forgot you never met her. Female mage, old, and well-trusted by both Greagoir and Irving. She was instrumental in helping to retake the Tower, after which they allowed her to accompany me. Well, I say 'allowed' but she'd already made up her mind to do so, and I got the impression that both of them were rather used to giving in to her. I was happy to take her, of course, a healing mage is a huge boon. And for her age she's quite spry, she never had any difficulty in keeping up with the rest of us. I swear she could walk most trained foot-soldiers into the ground, actually."

"You sound like you miss her," Oswyn said, grinning.

Katy grinned back, and laughed. "I suppose I do. She could be an interfering old baggage at times, but she was also like everyone's favourite grandmother, and a very talented healer. She used to darn Alistair's socks for him. Not for anyone else, mind you, anyone else who asked got handed a darning needle and a length of wool, and told to learn."

She stopped talking abruptly, blinking rapidly. Oswyn reached out and squeezed her hand, waiting while she regained her composure.

"Stupid memory for me to tear up over. Holey socks!" she exclaimed, then sighed. "Anyway. So I'll let Zevran know it's fine for him to come over and train Varel further tomorrow, and I'll likely drop in at some point again myself over the next day or two, and we can have a good long chat while Levyn fixes you up. And I should get on to the palace before Zevran gets up to any of his usual mischief. I swear that Anora's Guard-Captain must hate the sight of Zevran by now – since it's usually in some place he has no right being, and with none of the guards knowing how he got there!"

Oswyn nodded, and accompanied her out to the front hall. Nathaniel and Levyn were just coming back down the stairs, and the group of them stopped to chat together there in the front hall. Which would, of course, prove to be the moment when Varel came in from an errand, Connor Guerrin tagging along at his heels. It being most of a week since the party, Oswyn had thought he'd returned to Kinloch Hold by now, else he might have thought to give Varel instructions modifying the boy's open invitation to drop in on him any time.

They'd all turned, of course, to see who had just come in. Connor saw Katy first, and smiled happily, then looked beyond her. He froze a moment, face draining of all colour, then flushed red with rage.

" _You!_ " he shouted at the top of his lungs, and launched himself toward the mage, landing a pretty solid punch on Levyn's jaw and knocking him to the floor before anyone could move to stop him. Nate grabbed a hold of him first, hauling him back, and then Katy had her arms around him as well. He fought them, struggling and weeping and protesting incoherently, face distorted with both anger and his crying. Levyn lay sprawled on the floor, hand pressed to the side of his jaw and looking dazed.

They were lucky, Oswyn decided later, that Connor's first impulse hadn't been magic. Nor his second. "Shut the door," he quickly ordered Varel, hoping the altercation hadn't drawn any outside attention yet.

Katy was trying to calm Connor down, but he was hysterical, not even seeing who had hold of him, just struggling futilely, trying to get at the mage a second time. Oswyn moved forward, stepping between the two of them, and then reached out and slapped him. "Connor! Calm down!" he snapped, loudly. Connor froze again, and stared at him open-mouthed for a moment, then went limp in Katy and Nate's grasp, sobbing.

"Varel, help Katy get Connor to my room. Nate, see to Levyn," Oswyn ordered quietly, and led the way to his room.

It took considerable time to calm Connor down, Katy holding him and rubbing his back and making shushing sounds while he wept. Oswyn was beginning to think it might take some of his sedative to make any difference before the boy finally quieted, leaning heavily against Katy and sniffling. Varel, who'd disappeared off to check on the two wardens, came back into the room at last, bearing a pot of hot tea. Oswyn quickly put together a well-sweetened mug of it, handing it to Katy, and she coaxed Connor into drinking some. Finally he sighed, and sat upright, reaching for the cup.

"Sorry," he mumbled, flushing and looking down, unable to meet their eyes.

Oswyn reached out and squeezed his arm, then looked past him at Katy. "Go check on your warden," he told her. "Connor and I need to have a long talk, I think."

She pursed her lips slightly, then nodded, and rose to her feet. "Varel, could you bring me a pot of tea as well? To the study, I think," she asked as she started toward the door.

"Of course," the elf said, and followed her out.

Connor sniffled and drank more tea. Oswyn silently prepared himself a mug of it as well.

"What is _he_ doing here?" Connor finally asked angrily.

"Healing me. He's a Grey Warden now – Katy recruited him after becoming Arlessa of Amaranthine, I'm told."

"He killed my father," Connor said accusingly.

"No, Connor... he didn't."

"He poisoned him!"

"Yes, he did. Though he didn't know it was poison. And your father survived it; so no, he didn't kill your father."

"He _did_ kill my mother!"

"And saved your life by doing so, Connor." He frowned, thinking. Connor would have been so young when it all happened... "Has anyone ever told you the story of what happened? Everything, from why Levyn was there, to why your mother died?"

Connor glanced sideways at him, and frowned a little. "No," he admitted, grudgingly.

Oswyn sighed, then topped up both their mugs with tea. "It's going to be a long story," he warned Connor, then settled back in the seat. "And I only know what I've been told by others – mostly from Nate, a little from Levyn himself, and some from Katy."

"Jowan," Connor corrected harshly. "His name is Jowan, not Levyn."

Oswyn nodded. "It was Jowan, yes. He goes by Levyn now. Anyway... settle down and listen, and I'll tell you what I've heard about what actually happened."

Connor nodded, grudgingly, and settled back himself, mug clenched tightly in both hands.

"What I've heard is that when your mother found out you were a mage, she was frightened. You were her only son, and she loved you. She knew that if it was found out that you were a mage, you'd be taken away from her, sent off to the Tower, and would no longer able to be your father's heir, which would hurt both of them very much. So she decided to try and find you a teacher, a mage – an apostate, obviously – to secretly teach you how to control your magic; how _not_ to use it. So that your being a mage could remain safely secret forever."

Connor nodded slightly in agreement. "And she found Jowan."

"Not quite. He was found for her, by someone else. Unfortunately someone had learned of her search for an apostate, and he wanted a spy in your father's household; more than just a spy, someone who could be used against your father to prevent him from interfering in this person's plans."

"Loghain?" Connor guessed.

"He may have been involved; I don't know whether he was or not. But I do know who most certainly _was_ involved. Rendon Howe is the person who wanted a malleable spy in your father's household. When he learned your mother was looking for an apostate, he sent his men out to find one. You mentioned once that Lev... that Jowan had told you about his escape from the tower?"

"Yes."

"Well, Jowan was captured afterwards by templars. They were taking him to Denerim, where, they told him, he was to be executed as a maleficar. And then Howe's men tripped over them, and captured them – Jowan and the group of templars both. Howe had most of the templars tortured to death. He made Jowan watch, and then he tortured Jowan a little as well. And then Howe told him he had a choice; he could either follow Howe's orders, and maybe someday be allowed to return to the tower, or he could die the way the templars had."

Connor sucked in air through his teeth, looking appalled for a moment, then frowned angrily. "He should have told Howe no!"

Oswyn shrugged. "Perhaps. But he didn't know that Howe was going to trick him into poisoning your father; he thought he was just going to be there to spy on him. Perhaps if it had been a simple death he faced, he might have had the courage to tell him no. But it was no easy death those men had been given. So, between a choice of being a spy for Howe, or being killed in a very horrible way, he chose living. And then later, when Howe told him to see to putting a potion in your father's food or drink, and he was told it was merely something that would make Eamon ill for a little while, so that he'd stay in Redcliffe and not interfere in certain plans of Howe's and Loghain's – he had no reason to tell him 'no' then, either, did he?"

Connor was frowning now. "But he was safe once he was in Redcliffe. He could have told him no then, and not worried about dying for it."

"Really? When he was an apostate teaching a noble's son to hide his magic? And spying on your mother and father for someone else? He couldn't even be sure that he was the _only_ spy that Howe had there. What do you think might have happened to him if Howe had seen to it that someone revealed that he was a mage? Or if Howe himself approached your mother, and blackmailed her over his presence there. For that matter – and I know this will be hard for you to hear – how do you think your mother planned to make sure that your tutor never spoke of your powers?"

Connor frowned angrily. "But, why would she..." he began hotly, then broke off.

"I'm not saying your mother planned to kill him; she may well have been innocent enough to have never even considered what a danger the tutor might be to you and her after his job was done. But whether she thought of it or not, Jowan most likely did by then; he wasn't that innocent himself any more, not after passing through Howe's hands. So... he did what Howe demanded. He slipped the potion into something your father ate or drank, thinking it would merely make him ill. And instead, it nearly killed him. Jowan ended up in the dungeons at Redcliffe Castle. He was _tortured_ there, Connor, just as he had been in Howe's dungeons; I have to tell you that your mother's hands are not entirely clean in this matter, though her reasons, at least, were somewhat better. And then you contracted a demon, and things at Redcliffe got very ugly indeed."

Connor looked very unhappy now. He stared at the mug of cooling tea in his hands for a while, as if not really seeing it, then drank a couple of big swallows of it. "I just wanted to help my father," he said, in a very small tight voice. "I remember the guards dragging Jowan away, and I was so scared and angry... I didn't want to believe what mother was shouting, that it was _him_ that had poisoned father. We were _friends_ , he was the first tutor I'd ever had that I really liked; it was more like having a big brother than a teacher. I thought he liked me, too. I couldn't understand how he could possibly do something like that to me."

"He probably did like you. But he was terrified of Howe."

Connor continued as if not having heard his words. "I snuck into his room that night, and started looking through his books. I wasn't sure what I was looking for; that maybe if it was a poison he'd made, I'd find the recipe and there'd be an antidote for it right there as well. Or I'd find a book of easy spells, and there'd be one named 'how to save a man from poison', or something like that. I was just so _desperate_... and then there was a voice, offering to help, and I don't really remember much of anything afterwards. It was all like dreams, bad dreams, until I woke up one day weeks later. And mother was dead, father still ill, Jowan gone. So many dead, and me not even able to remember how, or what had happened in all that time. And then I was sent off to the tower."

Oswyn nodded understandingly. "And no one told you what happened while you were possessed?"

"Not really. They thought I was too young," Connor said bitterly. "I heard snippets, later, when people didn't know I could overhear what they were talking about. I know..." His voice broke. Tears started leaking from his eyes again. "I know I killed a lot of people."

" _You_ didn't. The desire demon did."

"Using me. All my fault, for listening to her _lies_..."

"The fault lies with a lot of people," Oswyn corrected him. "You for listening; Jowan for his part in causing you to be so desperate that you were easy prey for a demon; your mother for thinking that hiding your powers was in any way safe. Howe, too, in very large part, for engineering the situation, though I strongly doubt the amount of disruption that actually occurred was any part of his plans. Now... Connor. Listen to me. I'm going to tell you about the hardest part of what happened. About how and why your mother died. All right?"

Connor nodded shakily. "All right."

"Katy Cousland came to Redcliffe in search of help from your father. She and her companions met Teagan at the chantry there, and saved the village from an attack by the undead that would otherwise have killed them. With so many of the undead the demon was controlling destroyed, your mother managed to sneak out of the castle the next day in search of help. She found Teagan and Katy; Teagan went in with her as a distraction, while Katy snuck in a secret way that Teagan knew of. On her way in she found Jowan, heard his story, released him and told him to leave. She wouldn't have done that unless she believed he was reasonably innocent, would she?"

"No," Connor agreed, after thinking about it for a moment. "She wouldn't have. Father always said the Cousland's were stiff with honour."

Oswyn nodded. "So... Jowan was free, he could have just run away right then and there. But he didn't; he stayed. He snuck into the castle after Katy, even knowing it was stuffed full of undead and a very dangerous place for him to be. Katy found out that you were being controlled by a demon, and managed to drive it off long enough to free your mother and uncle from its influence. They thought they were going to have no choice but to kill you. And then Jowan came forward, and told them that he knew of a way you might be freed from the demon, but that it would take a great amount of power, since it would involve sending someone into the Fade to confront the demon there."

"Like a Harrowing?" Connor asked, startled.

"Yes, very like that. Which meant it was going to take a lot of power to do; either as much lyrium as it takes for a harrowing, or a blood magic ritual to raise the amount of power needed. The Tower had already fallen by then; even if there'd been time to cross the lake, and risk the demon doing more damage while they were gone, there was no way of knowing if the tower could even provide the help and lyrium needed to do the ritual without blood magic. So... there was a choice to be made. They could do the ritual – which would require that someone die, to provide enough power for it. Or they could kill you, before the demon could cause any further harm."

Connor drew a long, shaky breath. "And mother wouldn't let them kill me."

"No, she wouldn't," Oswyn agreed, as gently as he could. "Katy didn't want to do it, especially as there was no guarantee that it would even work; but your mother demanded it. Insisted that she be allowed to die, since if it had any chance of saving you, she couldn't live with herself if she _didn't_ do it. She loved you that much, Connor – enough to die for you."

Connor started weeping again, quietly this time. Oswyn moved closer, putting his arm around Connor;'s shoulders. It took a long time until he quieted again, until Oswyn released him and moved apart, and finished the story.

"It was a very hard choice for all of them; Jowan wanted to do his best to try and make right the things that had happened because he'd been too weak to tell Howe no; your mother wanted you saved at any cost. Katy finally gave in, and agreed to let them try. One of her companions was sent into the fade, and there managed to confront and kill the demon that held you prisoner. And when it was over with... you were free. Your mother was dead. And Katy told Jowan to leave, and this time he did."

"And now he's a Grey Warden?"

"Yes. She met him again, after the Blight had ended. He was helping refugees in Amaranthine escape from the darkspawn there. He was using the name Levyn by then; too many people had heard the stories about Redcliffe for Jowan to be a name he could use any more. And she recruited him; he's done good work as a Grey Warden ever since."

Connor sat looking thoughtful for a while. "You said he's here to heal you?" he asked eventually.

"Yes. He's doing what he can to fix some of the things that are wrong with me because of what Howe did to me. He can't fix all of it; I'm always going to be in some degree of pain, though it's already noticeably less than when he started. I'll still likely never hold a weapon again. Well, maybe a dagger," he corrected, lips twisting in slight amusement. "Though Maker help me if I'm trying to defend myself from anything but another cripple. But he's doing for me what he can. He's a good man, Connor, who did some bad things once. And has paid for them. He's determined that he will never forget the mistakes he made; or repeat them, no more than you will."

Connor had the grace to flush slightly at that. He started down at his hands for a long time, then sighed, and looked up. "Do you think... can I see him? Speak to him?"

"If you promise not to try and kill him, I'm pretty sure Katy would allow it," Oswyn said.

Connor shot him a look, lips twisting just slightly. "I promise," he said.

Oswyn smiled. "Then wait here, and I'll go talk to Katy."

* * *

Katy gave him a very long, thoughtful look, then turned and looked enquiringly at Levyn. The mage looked about equal parts hopeful and frightened.

"Your choice, Jo," she said softly.

" _Please_ ," he said, with such longing in his voice that Oswyn had very little doubt that the mage had cared for Connor as much as the boy had cared for him.

Katy nodded. "Privately, I think," she said, and turned to Oswyn. "Your room? Or in here?"

"My rooms would do – or better yet, the private garden in back of them. It's got very high walls separating it from the rest of the yard, and a good thick hedge, so unless they start shouting at each other or lobbing fireballs around there's no risk of them being overhead or noticed."

Katy smiled faintly. "No fireballs, Levyn," she said sternly.

The mage managed a very thin smile. "I promise, Commander."

"Good," she said, and looked to Oswyn again.

Oswyn nodded. "I'll go let Connor know you've said yes, and send him out to the garden to wait. Come over once you're ready," he said, and went back.

It was a good five minutes after he'd sent Connor out to wait before Katy, Nate, and Jowan came into the room, the mage looking anxious, having doubtless had an earful from Katy. Katy and Nate wore equally imperturbable expressions. She shooed Jowan out into the garden, then the three of them sat down to wait. When Varel came in to see if they needed anything, Oswyn sent him off for a fresh pot of tea, and something to nibble on. They sat mostly in silence, sipping their tea, talking a little to pass the time, though the conversation kept faltering.

Katy grew increasingly restless , and finally rose to her feet. "I think I'd better look and make sure they're not trying to kill each other after all," she said, and went over to the windows, drawing aside a curtain to look out. Oswyn only lasted about a half-second before rising to follow her. Nate merely snorted in amusement, and reached for another cookie.

" _Oh_ ," Katy said as she looked out. "I think they'll be all right," she added, sounding pleased.

Oswyn, in the brief glimpse he had over her shoulder before she let the curtain fall closed again, had to agree. The two were standing together, Jowan holding Connor comfortingly while the boy cried, his own face wet with tears.

* * *

"You understand that you need to keep this secret from your uncle?" Katy asked, passing Connor a cup of tea and an iced cake.

"He wouldn't understand," Connor agreed, a little reluctantly.

Katy nodded. "He might agree that Jowan is not entirely at fault for what happened, but he'd still feel duty-bound to try and have him arrested and punished for his part in it. And while as a Grey Warden Jowan is theoretically immune to prosecution for his past crimes, it would be very hard for me to protect him. He'd be in a great deal of danger; the chantry has never been happy about the Right of Conscription. They have no objection to us conscripting all manner of criminals, but want to draw the line when it comes to conscripting mages, criminal or not. They don't like being told that they have no more jurisdiction over them."

Connor nodded, and looked at Jowan, who was seated beside him, a soft smile on his face; one of the first times Oswyn could remember ever seeing the mage look relaxed and happy. "Can I write you, at least?" Connor asked.

"That might not be wise," Katy said, frowning slightly. "Even Greagoir and Irving don't know that I have him in the wardens, and they'd frown on you having an outside correspondent that's a stranger."

"He can write to me," Nate spoke up. "And I'll pass his messages on to Jowan. If Greagoir asks, we met here – which is true – and the basis of our friendship is over comparing how our lives have changed now that neither of us are nobles, and the difficulties of adapting to such a very different life than we'd been raised to expect." He smiled at Connor. "Perhaps I might even drop in at the Tower some day to see how you're getting on."

Katy bit her lip. "That might work," she reluctantly agreed. "As long as you're both very careful. Greagoir's not the kind to read mail, but I know other templars are not so delicate, and he won't last forever. The name Jowan is not to ever be used; I'd ask you to avoid ever mentioning the name Levyn, either, unless absolutely necessary. Watch what you say or ask in your letters, and think very hard about how it might sound to unfriendly eyes. That Connor is already a Harrowed mage means he's at least got some privileges now, and if he can prove himself trustworthy..."

"If he can prove himself trustworthy, there's very good reason to expect that he'll be allowed to leave the tower at some point; I'm sure Teagan will be pressing for that, and as Arl of Redcliffe and Connor's uncle his voice will have considerable sway with the chantry," Oswyn pointed out, glancing at Katy.

She gave a very small nod, acknowledging his unspoken point. Arl Teagan would not be the only person with influence who might be willing and able to help Connor toward greater freedom. The chantry might be hostile to anything she herself might do, due to their dislike of the Grey Wardens as being outside their power, but Oswyn, too, would be an Arl in the near future, as well as the Prince-Consort, and if _he_ eventually asked for Connor to be allowed out – likely they would acquiesce, as long as they were given no good reason to refuse.

Connor sighed. "That will take years... but I suppose we have years," he said, and smiled briefly at Jowan. "Though it'd be easier if you just conscripted me, wouldn't it?" he asked Katy, hopefully.

Katy laughed. "After how hard it was for me to pry a mage out of the tower last year? Unfortunately not, I think. No, Connor... you'll just have to be patient. Keep your head down, work hard, and in a few years time when they're satisfied that you're old enough – mature enough – and trustworthy enough, then perhaps you may find yourself being allowed to be hired out of the tower. Some mages spend most of their lives outside of the Circles, you know."

"Very few of them," Connor said, a touch glumly.

Jowan smiled, and reached out to ruffle Connor's hair, which drew a brief offended glare from the boy, who, on the verge of being a young man as he was, doubtless found it too juvenile a form of affection. "You'll have to be sure to work hard to be one of the few, then," Jowan said. "Don't be stupid, like I was. Do it right, so you don't have to live in fear."

Connor sighed, then nodded. "All right. I will."

They spent a bit longer in conversation, then Katy dragged Connor off to Oswyn's bathing chamber to clean his face and remove all trace of his earlier upset. She insisted on him leaving with her, saying that she'd see him returned to the his uncle before she went on to the palace. Levyn went upstairs to rest and think for a while after the excitement of the day; Nate and Oswyn sent the tea tray back to the kitchen, and decided that staging a small raid on the townhouse wine cellar was the proper end to their parts in the whole affair. Though just a small one, they agreed; they needed to stay sober enough to have a good long discussion with Levyn that evening about Oswyn's treatments over the next few days.


	35. Chapter 35

Varel bent over the sheet of parchment, carefully inking in the outline of another building. One that had survived the Battle of Denerim, through the buildings around it had burned; they were shown on the map with the scribbled texture that meant uncleared rubble. He looked up from his work, watching Oswyn for a moment.

Oswyn was standing in a cleared area off to one side from where Varel was perched on a pile of salvaged beams, leaning on his cane and talking intently to the supervisor of the work crew that was at work on clearing the rubble. He had the intent expression and faint frown that meant he wasn't entirely happy with what he was hearing. As Oswyn watched, he nodded, and asked another question, turning to wave his free hand at the desolate waste of ruined buildings that surrounded them. The supervisor nodded, and turned to shout and wave at another man, who ran over to join them, a roll of tatter-edged drawings tucked under his arm. All three men were soon pouring over the drawings, the third man holding them up while Oswyn and the supervisor looked over his shoulder, the supervisor alternating between pointing things out on them and gesturing at various points of the compass.

Doubtless they were talking about things like sewers and drainage again, or perhaps rights of way and firewalls, Varel guessed, before he turned back to his own careful map-making. Drainage had turned out to be a particularly important topic at many of the work sites they'd visited. Built at the mouth of a river as it was, much of Denerim overlay long-buried streams and springs, and in many places you didn't have to dig far to hit water. He hadn't known that himself, not until early on in his accompanying Oswyn around the city, when one of the masons Oswyn had been questioning had produced a much-thumbed map, showing the paths of ancient streams underneath the city, and where swampy areas had been. Almost all were long-since covered over and forgotten, showing up only as seasonal seepage in cellars dug too near their course, or occasionally as flooding.

Oswyn had been very excited about that map, and had Varel copy it on the spot; he often poured over it, muttering to himself and comparing it to the assortment of smaller maps he had – mostly made or copied by Varel – that showed what work was still being done or waiting to be done in which parts of the city.

He smiled as he bent his head back to his work. Oswyn seemed to have a knack for getting people talking. There was no reason for so many assorted workmen, craftspeople, work site supervisors and so forth to talk with him and discuss their work, but somehow he almost always managed to draw them into conversation and learn whatever he wanted to know about their current task. Varel had accompanied him all over the city now, from areas still awaiting rubble clearance in the worst slums – the worst outside of the alienage, that is – to sites in all stages of construction. Oswyn had even clambered around some of the construction sites, as well as he could given his physical problems. They'd walked a section of sewer tunnel that was under construction, in company with a mason who'd explained the reason for its high-arched cross-section. They'd also watched men – and elves – digging foundations, laying bricks, raising walls, nailing down floors, and putting down roofing; good fireproof tile or slate, by Anora's orders, and not the thatch or wood shakes that had previously prevailed. More expensive than either, and requiring different skills to lay, as well as a sturdier structure to bear the weight of it.

The construction of the new buildings was very different than what had gone before; more brick and stone was being used in construction, and while things like timber and wattle-and-daub were still allowed in the poorest areas, now there were laws mandating that they be faced over with inflammable materials such as clay stucco, or a facing of brick or tile, with wide laneways between blocks of such buildings to prevent the spread of flames. Higher stories on buildings could no longer be built out over such laneways; the gap was to be maintained. In addition there were high walls of brick or stone being built here and there to divide the city into wards, in the hope that even if a fire managed to gain hold, it would be unable to escape any single ward. That was what had saved the alienage from the fires that had destroyed so much else of the city; the high walls surrounding it.

It sounded like a sensible plan, and one that should have been easy to implement. But Oswyn and Varel had already seen or heard about any number of problems with the actual implementation of it, from what to do about buildings that still stood that were built in the older fashion, to how to compensate landowners who would lose some or all of their property to the wider road allowances and ward walls, and how to deal with buildings or lots where the landowners were unknown, perhaps dead. Then there was the perennial problem of noble landlords using their influence or wealth to have their own wants given priority over the needs of others, or the demands of the law. And countless other yet-to-be-heard difficulties as well.

Having finished his map, Varel checked the angle of the sun, and frowned. He carefully put away the still-damp map, and his drawing and painting supplies and rose to his feet, dusting off the back of his outfit, then picked up his satchel and hurried over to where Oswyn was standing watching a surveyor marking out streets and lots within a recently-cleared area of wasteland, his pair of guards standing nearby looking bored.

"Ser, we need to leave soon if you're to be at the palace on time," he told Oswyn.

Oswyn nodded, and straightened up. "I've seen enough here today, we might as well head home now," he said agreeably, and led the way over to where they'd left their carriage waiting. Oswyn could walk and stand with much more ease and less pain now than he'd been able to before the healer had worked on his legs, but he was not up to travelling all over the city on foot, nor ever likely to be; he didn't like using a carriage, but he had little choice in the matter.

They arrived back at the townhouse within the hour, where Oswyn took a quick bath with Varel's assistance before changing into finer clothing. They walked over to the palace, Oswyn preferring going on foot when the distance wasn't too great.

They weren't there to visit Anora in her private suite today; instead they headed to an ornate sitting room on the first floor that was part of the official function rooms, used mainly for state occasions. The group gathered there was small, and mostly female; a selection of noblewomen, mostly Banns and a trio of Arlessas, including the Warden-Commander in a splendid gown of deep blue velvet trimmed with silver-grey satin ribbons. The few noblemen there – apart from Oswyn himself – were mostly older men, including both Arl Wulff, accompanying his new bride, and Arl Teagan, still dressed in mourning colours for his brother. The one thing those gathered all had in common was that they were all supporters of the Queen; the royalist faction.

Anora rose from where she was seated in quiet conversation with Arl Wulff's wife – a handsome young woman with a tanned and freckled complexion, and long brown hair that hung loose in heavy ripples down her back – and walked over to greet Oswyn, offering him her hand. She had excused him from all kneeling – forbidden it, actually – apart from under the most formal of circumstances, and so he merely bowed deeply over it.

"Come and sit with me, Ser Oswyn," she said in a clear, carrying voice, and led the way back to the couch where she'd been sitting. Arl Wulff had already reclaimed his wife, the two moving to sit together elsewhere in the room.

Varel stood to one side of the door, among a cluster of other waiting servants, there at hand in case their principles wished their services, and to take mental note of events for later transcribing. He was mildly startled to recognize another servant standing nearby as Zevran, dressed for the occasion in royal livery with his hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, somehow managing to blend in rather than stand out. His tattoo was gone, doubtless hidden under a careful application of makeup.

Once the pair were seated, Queen Anora cleared her throat. A small sound, but it brought an instant silence to the room, everyone else breaking off their conversation to turn toward her and listen.

"I thank you all for joining me here today," she said, voice warmly welcoming. "Several of you are already aware of the news I am about to share, while others of you are only aware that I intend a special announcement at tomorrow's meeting. I ask that you maintain this news in secret until tomorrow; I announce it to you few now so that you are all equally aware of my intentions rather than being surprised tomorrow. Also so that if you have any concerns you may question me in regards to them here, now, in relative privacy, rather than seeking to have them addressed tomorrow."

She turned and looked to Oswyn, then smiled and reached out to place her hand over his. "Ser Oswyn of Dragon's Peak has agreed to marry me, to accept the title of Prince-Consort, and father children to continue my line."

There was a hush, then a murmur of voices. Several people – mostly those who had already known of Anora's plans – smiled warmly. Oswyn himself looked terribly self-conscious for a moment, then lifted his chin slightly, face settling in a calm mask.

"That's not all of it!" a voice called out from a far corner of the room, accompanied by the crack of a cane end being stamped against the floor. "Say all of it, girl!"

Anora barely concealed a smile. "Bann Tilda is correct; there is more. In marrying me, Ser Oswyn gives up his place as his father's heir; as Prince-Consort he will also have no share in my power as Queen. I wish to name him Arl of Denerim, to give him useful occupation during his life. The Arling will revert to the Crown when he passes, at which time its disposition may be reopened. As all of you are aware, there are currently several families with roughly equivalent claims on it; this gives us additional years in which to sort out their claims, and determine who the Arling of Denerim should rightfully pass to afterwards. I have spoken to representatives of all the families with such claims, and they have all agreed to this deferment."

Mostly in exchange for some immediate advantage, Varel knew, having sat in – or, more accurately, stood silently by, as he was now – on a number of such negotiations. Bann Tilda herself was one such; the tiny woman, now elderly and frail, had become Bann of Killifrost – a small bannorn tucked away in the Southron Hills – when her husband had been slain over a dispute with a group of Orlesian occupiers, some three or four years before Queen Moira's assassination. Already mother of three children beneath five years in age, and greatly pregnant with what turned out to be twin girls, she'd retreated with her people into the surrounding forests, and from there waged a campaign to drive out the occupiers and reclaim her husband's lands, which she'd eventually succeeded in doing. She'd fought in battle herself, after the birth of her youngest daughters, and had reputedly been an able horsewoman, a fine shot with a bow, and reasonably well-skilled with a sword.

After the occupation ended her five children had over time married both widely and well, making her a powerful matriarch despite the relative insignificance of her own lands. She had three different children who could, thanks to their marriages, lay some claim to the Arling of Denerim for her grandchildren. She'd insisted on meeting and pretty thoroughly interrogating Oswyn before agreeing to persuade her children to defer their claims; and at that she'd only acquiesced when she learned that Oswyn's father had started formally courting the daughter of one of the three. Some might suspect that Bann Sighard's choice had been purely politically motivated, but it had actually been completely coincidental; the woman in question met all the requirements he was looking for in a second bride, and had proven compatible enough in chance conversations for him to make request to her parents to formally court her. A courting that was going well; Bann Sighard was absent from today's meeting as he was currently in final negotiations with the girl's parents, drawing up the betrothal agreement so that their engagement could be announced at tomorrow's meeting for formal Crown approval.

As a result of Anora's private negotiations before making her announcement to even this select a group of people, there was no opposition to her choice, and in fact most of the people there gathered clearly approved of the proposal. Apart from a few people to whom it _was_ news, and who wished it made clear just what provisions were planned for things like Queen Anora's death before any of her children reached majority, or worse, without children at all, there was very little discussion necessary before Anora was smilingly able to announce that the occasion was moving from official business to purely a social gathering.

Servants entered, carrying trays of finger-foods and drinks, and circulated among the guests, many of whom also rose and milled around, talking in groups about every subject under the sun, from the goings-on at this year's Fall Assizes to gossip about those absent, politics both within and without Ferelden, and current fashions. Anora and Oswyn remained seated where they were; a number of people went up to offer their congratulations to the pair. Oswyn smiled a lot, and exchanged compliments and flattery with the guests. Varel kept a close watch on him, knowing that Oswyn still found such formal social situations tiring. Though they were something he was going to have to tolerate; as Prince-Consort, and Arl of Denerim, he was going to have an increasing amount of social obligations.

He, meanwhile, had to learn to tolerate standing around doing nothing for long periods of time. Zevran seemed surprisingly adept at it; the assassin blended in perfectly with the other waiting servants, nothing about him indicating that this wasn't his usual role. Though Varel supposed that made sense; from things the other elf had let drop in passing in their conversations, he knew that one way the assassin had often penetrated the homes of targets, in order to eventually perforate or poison the target themself, was as a servant. Zevran must have considerable past experience at filling the role he was currently only imitating.

It was, for Varel, a very long and rather boring afternoon, made interesting only by some of the choicer bits of gossip he happened to overhear. He was relieved when the event finally ended, Queen Anora saying a short thank you and biding farewell to her guests. The room emptied quickly, and soon the only people left beside he and Zevran were the Queen, Oswyn, and Katherine Cousland.

"Well, I'm glad that's over with," Katy said, and smiled at the other two. "As I'm sure are both of you."

"Yes," Anora agreed. "Now we've just got tomorrow to get through, and then we should be past the worst of the hurdles bar the actual wedding itself. But come, let's go upstairs; it should be time for dinner soon, and I'm famished," she said, walking back over to Oswyn and linking her arm with his.

"After all that delicious finger-food?" Katy asked as she rose, and shook out her skirts.

"I was too nervous to eat a bite," Anora confessed. She stopped suddenly as she and Oswyn approached the door, and smiled at Zevran. "I thought that was you lurking over here. You're to come upstairs and join us for dinner, Zevran. Varel, you come along too," she said, and then continued out of the room. Varel was startled by the invitation, but fell in behind Katy Cousland. Zevran, maintaining his disguise, walked beside Varel rather than with her, both of them walking in silence while the other three chattered away during the walk upstairs, of necessity slowed by Oswyn's pace.


	36. Chapter 36

Only once they were withing the privacy of the Queen's personal sitting room did Zevran suddenly smile, and yank out the tie holding his hair back, scrubbing his fingertips vigorously back and forth across his scalp before finger-combing out his hair. "I loathe ponytails," he said conversationally. "They make the roots of my hair ache." That said, he tugged his tabard off over his head, and began to wipe at his cheek with one corner of it, removing the makeup concealing his tattoo.

Katy laughed, and walked over to the sideboard, where a tray of goblets and a decanter of red wine waited. She poured, bringing a pair of goblets to Anora and Oswyn first of all, then to Varel's extreme surprise served Zevran and himself next. He froze a moment, before shooting a questioningly look at Oswyn, when she held the glass out to him.

"Take it, and find a seat," Katy told him firmly, smiling and lifting the glass slightly more towards him. "You'll not be expected to pretend to be a piece of furniture when it's just us; we know you're as much Oswyn's friend as Zevran is mine and Anora's."

He swallowed, then accepted the glass, bowing to her. "Thank you," he said softly, and looked around, wondering where he should sit. Oswyn ticked his head slightly to one side, indicating a chair close to the seat he was sharing with the Queen, and Varel walked over and hesitantly sat down, feeling horribly self-conscious.

Zevran, for his part, had happily accepted a glass of wine, and thrown himself down on a couch nearby, stretching out on it as if he owned the place. Katy poured a glass for herself, then walked over and paused, looking pointedly down at his feet. He grinned and moved them out of the way, curling up comfortably on the remaining two-thirds of the couch. He seemed to have a rather cat-like ability to make himself comfortable anywhere.

The three nobles promptly began discussing the gathering downstairs, as well as the meeting to come the following day. It would not be a formal Landsmeet – those were only held every few years, apart from when special sessions were called for – but there were enough nobles in attendance at court this fall to constitute a quorum for the passage of ordinary business, and all of the assorted announcements that Anora needed to make the next day fell within that category. Even her own engagement and the naming of Oswyn to become Arl of Denerim counted as such, as long as no strenuous objections were raised, and she'd spent much of her time during the Assizes conducting behind-the-scenes manoeuvring to make sure that there would be no such objections.

Zevran contributed his observations to the conversation as well, and Varel couldn't help but notice that both the Queen and the Warden-Commander took his opinions very seriously, even deferring to his judgement more than once. Clearly they felt he had a very keen feel for politics, and listening to the things that Zevran had to say – connections he'd picked up on between seemingly random bits of gossip, observations about significant looks or quiet exchanges various participants at the meeting had had, and so forth – Varel began to suspect that the other elf was indeed as skilled in politics as he was in combat. In other words, highly.

Oswyn spoke little, and clearly put thought into his responses whenever Anora or Katy asked his opinion on matters. Mainly he listened, an intent expression on his face, eyes flitting from face to face as each spoke. Listening, drinking things in.

A bell rang softly from somewhere else in the apartments. Anora straightened up, smiling, "Our dinner is ready," she said, and rose easily to her feet, offering Oswyn her own hand to help him up as well before tucking her hand into his arm. Zevran rose hastily, offering his arm to Katherine as she rose, and the five of them walked to the dining room. The table was set, a covered plate and filled wine glass at each of five places. Anora took a seat at the head of the table, Oswyn and Varel to her right, Katy and Zevran to her left.

The covers, when removed, revealed deep bowl-like plates filled with a substantial meal; a mound of mashed root vegetables, crowned with meat seethed until falling apart in shreds, the whole drowned in pot-juices from the cooking, beaded with globules of fat and flecked with bits of herbs. There was a basket of buttered bread in the middle of the table between them to go with it, and a decanter of red wine to top up their glasses. A brief silence fell as they made a start on their meal, broken only by sounds of approval and the scrape of cutlery against dish.

Varel had eaten similar meals in the past, but never so finely made, and certainly not in such exalted company. He felt horribly nervous, and just hoped his manners were fine enough. He snuck glances at how Oswyn and Zevran were handling their utensils, holding their glasses, and so on, and did his best to imitate them. Zevran met his eyes at one point, and smiled charmingly at him with the merest suggestion of a wink before turning his attention back to Anora, as she cleared her throat and then turned to Oswyn.

"I hear you have been very busy of late, travelling about the city," she said, re-opening conversation.

Oswyn smiled. "Yes. If I am to become Arl of Denerim, I felt I should familiarize myself with the work that is ongoing in rebuilding city; both in places where the clearing and building is going well, and in places where it is not. And hopefully have some idea of changes to make that might make things go better."

"And have you come up with any ideas?" Katy asked.

"A few. One of the most obvious problems is that rebuilding in areas where the need is great has often been ignored in favour of rebuilding in areas where the profit is greater. Such as construction in the new ward, or repairs and additions to the the homes of nobles or wealthy merchants being given priority out of all proportion, ignoring what is actually needed to house the multitudes who were unhoused by the invasion and fires, many of whom have now had to subsist in temporary accommodations for _years_. Not to mention the influx of people who have come here to work on the rebuilding but cannot find proper homes themselves. The unrest among the displaced grows greater by the day, especially with yet another winter looming with little to no progress on even simple clearance in some of the most desperately needy areas. And even more so when instances of unbalanced application of the laws is apparent for any with eyes to see," he added with a displeased frown.

"Such as?" Anora enquired.

"Oxheart Street, for example. It was designated as one to be widened, to provide a firebreak between blocks of houses. One such block of properties is owned by a consortium of two minor nobles and a wealthy merchant. Across from it was a row of shops that were mostly owner-operated. When the street-widening was marked out there was not an equal allowance removed from the lots on both sides, which would have meant them loosing about three feet of frontage each, instead it was marked out entirely on the small-merchants side, which looses them almost a third of their lot. Likely the surveyor was bribed to make it so. There are also places where the streets have been marked out more narrowly than they should be. And then there's the problem with employing elves."

"Problem with employing elves?" Zevran enquired, eyebrows rising questioningly.

"Yes. You see, there's a law that was passed in the early months of the reconstruction, meant to protect the jobs of human workers from being taken over by more cheaply-employed elves. If a skilled human worker is available to do a job, they must be hired in preference of elves."

Anora nodded slowly. "I remember the passage of that law. In what way is it causing a problem?"

"In how it's being interpreted. Normally, workers will be hired at the beginning of a job, work until it is completed, and then let go. But with this law in place, what's happening is that any time human workers are let go from a job, they insist of being hired on in place of any elven workers who happen to be performing jobs that they can do. So supervisors can't be sure of having the same crew from day to day, and may lose builders skilled in a particular task because they have no choice but to let them go and take on someone else instead, who may or may not have any skill at that particular task. And then if the new people change their mind for some reason – better pay at some other job, dislike of the supervisor, or whatever other reason, which happens frequently with humans so easily able to change jobs – well, by then the elves they had before may no longer be available. That's what caused the tunnel collapse near the market last week."

"I heard of that," Katy spoke up. "Weren't several people injured in the collapse?"

"Yes, five injured and two killed outright," Oswyn agreed. "I managed to get the supervisor – or rather, the man who had been the supervisor, he's been made a scapegoat and let go – talking to me a few days ago, with the aid of a rather liberal application of ale I must admit, and he told me what had happened. The building of the sewage tunnels is a fairly skilled job of bricklaying, since it involves laying a continuous vaulted structure that must support a considerable weight of earth and stone overhead, once the ditch it's built in has been refilled and roadways or buildings built over top of it. But it's not considered a very desirable job, since they end up out of sight underground in the end, not to mention what their eventual use is. So he'd had a mixed crew of mostly elves and a handful of humans working together for some time, all of whom were well-used to working together. Then three weeks ago he was forced to replace the majority of his elves with a group of bricklayers let off from another construction project elsewhere. They were the lowest grade of masons, only trained in making plain upright walls, the simplest of structures. They made mistakes in the building, and ignored their co-workers when they tried to correct them; beat one of them half to death, for his presumption in trying to instruct humans," Oswyn said grimly. "The supervisor ended up too frightened of the new workers to properly correct them himself after that, so I cannot claim he is entirely without fault in the matter. In the end the section they were working on was being so poorly-made that it couldn't even support its own weight, and collapsed."

Anora was frowning now. "That sounds most unfortunate. And it does not sound like this method of hiring is an efficient system."

"It's not, not at all. It also leaves the elves having to constantly scramble for new jobs, never knowing from day to day if they still have a job, or will be turned away from their work site and have to seek a new one. Now, if it was made clear that the way it's to be interpreted is that humans only have priority over elves at the _beginning_ of a job, when a crew is initially being hired, then that would be far more acceptable; supervisors would only let go of workers who proved unsuitable, workers could be reasonably sure of steady employment once being taken on to any particular job, and things would work far more smoothly."

Anora nodded slowly, looking thoughtful, then smiled at Oswyn. "And I'm sure you have ideas for dealing with some of the other faults you've seen."

Oswyn grinned. "A few, yes," he agreed, then began to tick off points on his fingers. "Some official inspectors and surveyors answered only to myself as Arl of Denerim, for one, backed by laws that impose fines and other punishments on those who seek to subvert the rebuilding effort to their own benefit. A way of dealing with the multitude of properties whose owners cannot be determined, likely dead or fled. A more organized approach to rebuilding, _now_ , the areas that are most badly in need of it, as well as better shelters for those who are still without permanent, long-term housing, rather than building better housing for people who mostly already have perfectly adequate shelter. Work on the new Chantry should be slowed down, it consumes far too many skilled workmen who could be better employed elsewhere at present. The priests have enough shelter, and Andraste would likely be more concerned about the housing of the poor than a grand empty space being built for her statue."

Anora made a face. "That last may be difficult to accomplish. Having a great cathedral built was in the nature of a bribe to the Chantry; not just to convince them to give up their previous location by the market, which would have greatly inconvenienced the plans to expand it, but also to convince the Grand Cleric to be far more tolerant of things such as my insisting that the mages of Ferelden are still citizens of Ferelden, and have rights that the Chantry must respect."

Katy Cousland muttered something under her breath. Varel didn't quite catch the words, but by the amused looks both the Queen and Zevran were giving her, it had been something extremely impolite about the Grand Cleric. He hid a smile himself by taking another sip of the wine.

The rest of the meal – including an excellent apple pie for dessert – passed mostly in Oswyn expounding on his findings and plans to the two women. It was clearly a subject that interested him; he gestured with his hands a lot, smiling often, while describing his hopes for what he might be able to do once he'd been made Arl and had the power to make changes. Anora listened with interest and asked a number of good questions, while Katy mostly listened, looking pleased. Varel caught the two women exchanging a look and a pair of very small nods at one point when Oswyn was talking away animatedly.

"Well," Anora finally said. "If I had any doubts at all that you would make an excellent Arl for Denerim, they've certainly been laid to rest tonight. I am quite pleased by the amount of work and thought you've already put into the issues that you will be having to deal with once the power of the seat is yours; I look forward to seeing you undertake what you've talked of tonight. We will have a very long and busy day tomorrow making sure that indeed happens; so I think it would be best if we brought this evening to an early end."

Oswyn nodded agreement. Everyone rose, Anora saying a warm good-bye to both Katy first of all, exchanging a brief hug and a kiss on the cheek with her, then turning and offering her hand to Zevran. The assassin bowed deeply over it, his free hand moving in graceful flourishes, and brushed a kiss over her knuckles, murmuring something that was too quiet for anyone but Anora herself to hear. She laughed aloud, and shook her head. "You might need to keep him on a leash, Katy, he's getting far too familiar again," she said in a scolding tone of voice, belied by a wide smile and the amusement in her eyes.

The Warden-Commander rolled her eyes. "Don't _say_ things like that around him! You know what he's like!"

Zevran grinned momentarily, then assumed an entirely too-innocent expression, folding his hands behind his back and moving to stand at Katy's side.

Anora turned and offered Varel her hand as well. He stiffened for a moment, terrified by the idea of doing something wrong, then carefully grasped it in his and bowed deeply over it – a plain bow, and without kissing it – and held the bow for a long moment before straightening again. Anora gave him an approving smile as he released her hand, and then turned to Oswyn. He, like Katy, received a hug, through a more restrained one.

"Sleep well, all of you," Anora wished them, smiling warmly at all of them, and stood by her chair, one hand resting on the back of it, as they all bowed to her and withdrew.

Katy yawned hugely as soon as they were out in the hallway. "Well, me for my bed back at the Grey Warden compound. _You_ , Zevran, may well find yourself sleeping with the mabari if you don't behave yourself."

Zevran said nothing, just grinned, and continued strolling along beside her.

"Well, see you tomorrow, Oswyn – though I doubt we'll have any time to talk," Katy said, grimacing. "Forgive me for hurrying off, but I've been up since well before dawn today, and am likely to have an equally long day tomorrow."Oswyn nodded, and bid her good-night, after which she hurried off down the hallway, Zevran pausing only long enough to dip a brief bow to Oswyn and Varel before following after her.

They took their time going down all the steps to the ground floor, where they retrieved their guards before walking back through the darkening city to the townhouse. Oswyn sent Varel off to fetch him a mug of medicinal tea from the kitchen as soon as they got indoors – the same chamomile and willow bark that Varel had made for him when Oswyn was staying with him in the alienage – and asked him to bring it to the study. It took a while to make, the willow bark needing to steep for several minutes before the tea was strained.

Peter was leaving the study as he walked down the hallway toward it, a grin on the man's face. He nodded his head to Varel in passing, grin widening, and hurried off. Varel turned to stare after him in puzzlement for a moment, wondering what had the other man looking so amused.

Oswyn looked up from the maps he was studying when Varel entered. "Thank you," he said, and smiled warmly at the elf. "Go ahead to your own bed; I'm too awake to go to bed right away, and there's no point in you waiting up just to tuck me into bed. I'll need you well-rested tomorrow."

"If you're sure," Varel said, surprised. They'd fallen into a quite comfortable evening routine, and normally he'd have remained in the study, reading up on one of the many subjects he was still learning, until it was time to see Oswyn off to bed.

Oswyn grinned. "I'm sure. Go! Enjoy yourself," he added, then picked up the mug, sipping from it before turning his attention back to his maps.

Varel did as told, heading off upstairs to his own quarters, smiling as he let himself into them. He still still a moment, running his thumb across his fingertips, remembering the feeling of the Queen's hand in his own. The Queen! He'd dined with the Queen! And touched her hand! Feeling considerably elated, he began undoing the laces of his shirt as he crossed the small sitting room to the bedroom. And stopped there in the doorway, seeing that the bed was already occupied.

Myra smiled at him, and put aside her knitting. "I thought I'd take advantage of that open invitation to visit you here for once," she said, and patted the bedding beside her hip. "Why don't you come on over here and join me?"

Varel grinned, suddenly understanding the reason for the smiles downstairs – and Oswyn's unexpected thoughtfulness – and promptly did so.


	37. Chapter 37

Oswyn gave himself a final once-over in the full-length mirror, then nodded to Varel. "Well done," he said.

Varel smiled slightly, and stepped back, putting down the comb he'd just finished neatening Oswyn's hair with.

"You remember what you're to do?" Oswyn asked him.

Varel nodded. "Yes, ser. You, Pierce, Arlessa Cousland, and Zevran have all given me detailed instructions."

Oswyn gave a short laugh. "Sounds like almost as many people as have been instructing me on what to do," he said, then held up his hands. They were shaking slightly. "Doesn't help much with the nervousness, does it?"

"No," Varel agreed, smiling crookedly. "Your cane," he said, offering it to Oswyn. A new one for the occasion, a gift from Katy, a tapered length of black oak, its end a pommel-like knob of polished silverite set with a cabochon star-sapphire a good inch across. Oswyn was very pleased with it, the star recalling his father's coat of arms as it did; a coat of arms that would soon no longer be his to use, replaced instead by the green sunburst and three white diamonds of the Denerim crest.

He accepted the cane from Varel's hand, drew a deep breath, then walk over to and out the door, and along the hallway to the room where he was to wait. Varel accompanied him there, and stayed with him while he waited. He was too tense to talk, and instead simply stood, listening to the faint murmur of voices from the next room. He could pick out Anora's voice more than once, asking questions or answering them, as the meeting progressed. The first – and longest – business of the day would be various nobles announcing their decisions to marry or remarry and receiving Crown approval for such, listing births and deaths among the nobility since the last such meeting, acknowledging a couple of inheritances as a result of such deaths, and so on. Ending in Anora summoning him in and announcing their own betrothal.

He considered sitting down – there was a chair present, and his legs were beginning to ache – but then reconsidered; he didn't want to wrinkle the tail of his jacket, nor be having to fight his way back to his feet once summoned. Time seemed to drag by, and then suddenly the door to the room opened, and a liveried page summoned him to come stand before the Landsmeet.

Varel smiled and nodded to Oswyn as he walked by the elf, leaving him behind as he followed the page away, down a short corridor, across the entry hall, and then through guarded double doors to emerge into the Landsmeet chamber itself. Roughly two-thirds of the seats were filled, and he allowed himself a quick glance around the room at the gathered nobles before turning his attention to the dais at the far end of the room, and Anora, standing at the top of the steps, her hands folded neatly in front of her. He walked straight ahead, using his cane as little as he could when his legs seemed to be threatening to turn to water and were stiff from standing besides. He wished the floor was uncarpeted; the broad strip of it that ran up the centre of the room was very thick and soft, and not the best footing. Just before the dais a second strip of carpeting ran between paired doors to either side of the room; he stopped there, in the middle of their junction, braced himself with his cane, and carefully lowered himself to one knee, before bowing as deeply as he could, holding the bow for a count of three before straightening his back and looking up the stairs toward the Queen.

Anora gave him the slightest of nods and gestured for him to rise, then spoke, her voice easily filling the large chamber. "Ser Oswyn of Dragon's Peak, you have been summoned before this gathering for two reasons. First, so that I may announce our intention to marry, with you taking the title of Prince-Consort and fathering my heirs. Second, so that I may propose that you be named as Arl of Denerim, a post you will hold for life, but which will revert to its proper line on your death."

A murmur of voices had started up as soon as she reached the first point; not very many, this particular part of her intentions having already been slowly spreading in gossip among the nobility. It was the second point that received the loudest response, being more of a surprise.

"We will begin by allowing questioning of Ser Oswyn so that all may be satisfied with his suitability for both these roles," Anora announced, and within moments had acknowledged the first questioner. Oswyn turned to look up toward the galleries, exchanging a brief bow with the noble in question – a minor bann from the west, with a rural bannorn on the eastern shores of Lake Calenhad. Her question was minor, merely asking if Ser Oswyn's children would be heirs to his father's lands, and if not, who would be. That one was answered by Bann Sighard, who rose and pointed out that he was remarrying, and stated that the bannorn would pass to whatever heir was next in line after Oswyn, assuming the Maker granted him and his lady-wife children, which they had no reason as of yet to doubt would occur in due course.

Not all questions were as easily dealt with, and occasionally some were on rather personal and delicate subjects. "Given the extent of Ser Oswyn's injuries, I must ask to have it confirmed that he is indeed capable of fathering children," one elderly gentleman asked.

Ser Oswyn flushed, but bowed respectfully toward him. "I have been closely examined by a healer, and he is satisfied both that I am capable of such function, and that my seed is sufficiently fertile."

Katherine Cousland signalled for acknowledgement, and spoke as well. "The healer is a man known to me, and supplied by me at the Queen's request. I will swear to his probity and skill."

And hadn't that been an embarrassing hour, for both himself and Levyn, who'd had to stand witness to the entire process so that he could swear that the seed tested had indeed been issued forth by Oswyn. The feelings of shame attendant on it had raised bad memories for Oswyn, such that he'd needed a dose of medicine before finally sleeping that night.

Thankfully, the next questioner after that delicate subject turned to something more easily answered; what Oswyn would do in the unlikely event of Denerim needing to turn to arms. Oswyn bowed again and answered. "I cannot myself bear arms to any great effect any more. But I have my father's example before me as to how to best train up and direct others, and have begun making a study of all of the fields related to warfare that do not require my personal use of a blade. I may be unable to skewer an enemy myself, but I would hope that I can still support, supply and direct my soldiers in how best to skewer them in my place, as must any man whom age or infirmity has rendered unable to take a place in the forefront of battle."

That drew an approving mutter, more than a few of the older nobles being themselves past the point of having the ability to personally lead their men-at-arms.

Eventually the questioning died off. At that point Anora asked a representative of each of the families with a vested interest in the Arling of Denerim's disposal to rise, make clear their particular degree of claim on the seat, and give consent to Oswyn's temporary holding of the seat. This took some time, as the routes of possible inheritance tended to be lengthy and many of those with the strongest claims on the arling had multiple historical ties to the families that had held it. Oswyn's own father was one of those who had to stand and give consent, the Aylridge line being among those with a close enough link to the Kendalls to have some claim themselves on the seat.

Partway through the lengthy proceedings Anora paused and had a chair brought in for Oswyn to enable him to sit down. A pair of pages hurried in with a seat for him; a rather nicely judged one, being no particularly comfortable or ornate chair, but instead a plain high stool of wood with a low back, such as any clerk might perch on in his office. And, being high, one he could easily sit on and stand from without assistance.

The public consent from all of those within a certain degree having finally been obtained, Anora gestured for silence. "If anyone has any further questions, or any objection to Ser Oswyn being named Arl of Denerim, please raise it now."

An even deeper silence fell. Broken quite suddenly, by a loud rap of cane against floor. Anora's brows rose slightly, but she nodded in acknowledgement. "Yes, Bann Tilda?"

"A question, if you please. If Ser Oswyn is to be only _temporary_ Arl of Denerim, will he be given the right to use the arms of Denerim? It seems to me that such should be reserved for whomever the holding passes to after him; whomever is judged to be its proper line of inheritance, once such is determined."

That drew another silence, followed by some muttering as people discussed the point among themselves. Anora let it continue briefly, a thoughtful look on her face, then raised her hands for silence. "Would it satisfy you if the arms were differenced with the addition to or replacement of some sigil on the arms? Perhaps substituting the stars or crescent of Dragon's Peak for the diamonds or sun of Denerim?"

Another brief silence, then Bann Tilda spoke again. "That would be entirely satisfactory."

Anora nodded. "Than I will see to it that a suitable personal blazon is assigned to Ser Oswyn, one based on both the arms of his birth and the arms of Denerim. Are there any further questions or objections?"

There were none. After a wait of several minutes, Anora smiled. "Rise, Ser Oswyn. I name you Arl of Denerim, subject to no authority save the Fereldan Crown and the decisions in congress of the Landsmeet. From this day until your death, the Arling of Denerim is yours to hold and protect, to oversee all decisions made within, to raise and maintain a suitable force of arms within, and to collect such rents and taxes as are appropriate."

There was a substantial amount of noise following that, as Oswyn rose, and bowed first to the Queen, then to either side to acknowledge the nobles in attendance. Nobles whom he would henceforth join in this chamber as an equal member, a full member in his own right, no longer attending the occasional session merely as his father's heir. Anora waited for a few minutes, then signalled for silence again.

"And now to our final business; for Arl Oswyn and myself to formally pledge our troth here before witnesses, with an exchange of tokens to signify our promises one to each other. Are you ready, Arl Oswyn?"

"Yes, your Majesty," he said, bowing deeply toward the throne. At a signal from Anora, the doors to either side of where he stood were opened, a servant in royal livery entering through the ones to his left, Varel through the ones to his right, each bearing a small closed box on a salver.

Much thought and discussion had gone into their tokens; while Anora had the full reserves of the Ferelden royal jewels to draw on if she wished, some hundreds of pieces of jewellery of varying historical significance, she'd wanted whatever they exchanged to have personal meaning. Which left her with few enough choices, the Mac Tir family being of such recent founding. The Aylridge family, while far more ancient in noble lineage, had lost almost all their own treasures when their castle was overrun during the occupation. Much of their jewellery had been captured and stolen away into Orlesian hands and lands, and never recovered, so he'd had only a relatively few pieces of meaning to chose among as well. In the end, they had settled on two pieces of great personal significance; a ring that had belonged to Oswyn's mother – though not the one that his father had given her on their betrothal – and a ring that King Maric had once given to Loghain Mac Tir, though Loghain had only rarely worn it, not being much given to display.

Varel reached Oswyn's side, and turned to face the throne, going down on one knee and bowing deeply, holding the bow before straightening up again, remaining down on one knee with his back rigidly erect and head lowered slightly. The royal page, reaching Oswyn's side, dipped a shallow bow to him, then turned and proceeded up the stairs, taking a like position to Varel's at the Queen's side.

And now came the difficult part; bringing the two of them together to actually exchange their tokens. Anora would have been willing to come down the stairs to Oswyn, but as both Zevran and Katherine had quickly pointed out, those who looked for portents in actions – and there were a number of the nobles who subscribed to such superstitions – would read that as a sign that she would in time lose her preeminence, and Oswyn rise to power over her instead. Which meant Oswyn had to climb the stairs, _without_ stumbling, which would also be read as a bad sign.

He started forward, glad he'd been able to sit for a while and rest his legs, and gladder yet for every moment he'd had to spend lying in bed while Levyn worked on healing his legs and joints. He could not have climbed them unaided at any speed even as recently as a month ago; he was going to have to do it now. He took his time, not quite going slow, but at a stately pace and all the while keeping a close eye on his footing and where he placed his cane, concentrating on making it look as if the dozen steps were not as difficult and painful a journey as they actually were. Varel follow behind him and to the right, still bearing his salver. They reached the top at last, where Anora had withdrawn back toward the throne to leave some space for him to stand, and Oswyn stopped, bowing deeply to Anora. Varel meanwhile sank down on one knee again, his eyes turned downwards as he again maintained a deep bow in her direction for several seconds before straightening and moving to hold the salver within easy reach of Oswyn.

Anora gave Oswyn a very small, encouraging smile – small enough to be visible to him, but not to the multitudes watching – and then nodded to her page, who opened the casket he held. She reached in and drew out the ring it contained, a fairly massive ring of white gold, in the form of an interlaced band, its strands opening enough at one point to wrap around and contain a single pale aquamarine; the same icy blue as Loghain's eyes, supposedly, which was the reason why Maric had whimsically gifted him with this particular ring.

Varel opened the box he carried in turn. The ring it contained was much smaller, sized for a woman's slender fingers; a band of gold, a wide groove in its outer surface containing a weaving of red-gold wires, their interlacing forming a pattern of stars. Bann Sighard had gifted it to his wife on the occasion of Oswyn's birth, and his name and birth-date were etched on the inner surface of the band. It had been one of her favourite pieces to wear, until she'd died in childbirth several years later. Oswyn had been hesitant about taking it from his father, but Sighard had insisted, pointing out that as the symbol of Oswyn's birth it should most rightly go to him, not whatever later children Sighard fathered with his second wife.

He lifted out the ring, and they each held out their left hand, the heart-hand, and with their right placed their ring on the other's fingers in turn, then clasped hands. That done, Anora leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead, after which he bowed over and kissed her hand, signifying that he was still subordinate to her. Applause and words of congratulations sounded throughout the room.

"You may return to your seat, Arl Oswyn," she said in a carrying voice.

He bowed to her again, and carefully backed a single step away from her – the most he could safely manage, though by true protocol he should have backed away for some considerable distance – then turned to face the stairs. They looked far steeper from the top than they had when climbing them, and he was abruptly certain that trying to descend them without help would be inviting a disastrous fall. He turned back to Anora, and gestured toward Varel. "I am afraid I will need my servant's help to descend," he said quietly, only just managing to keep his voice entirely calm. This was not a contingency that had been discussed at all; they'd all been much more concerned about him approaching the throne correctly than the withdrawal afterwards. A glaring omission, now that the moment was on him.

Anora blinked, then smiled slightly. "Of course," she said calmly, then dropped her volume to one that could only be heard by those on the dais, and spoke rapidly. "Varel, bow deeply again now, and hold it until I say. You are to retreat backwards at least two steps down, and bow again, after which you are free to assist Oswyn down the stairs. Bow toward the throne once you reach bottom, then retreat backwards to your place at Oswyn's side. Understood?"

"Yes, your Majesty," Varel whispered, holding a deep obeisance toward her.

"Begin," she whispered, and then nodded to Varel, deeply enough for it to be visible to their audience that she was giving him permission for something.

As smoothly as if they'd practised it, Varel rose enough from his very deep bow to back a couple of steps down the stairs, then dropped down on one knee again. Oswyn gave Anora another bow as well, then turned away again. Varel rose and turned away, keeping his eyes turned down, and Oswyn set one hand on his shoulder, then the two of them descended the staircase together. The added support enabled him to make it down without accident, and without giving away just how much of a strain the downward descent was on him. At the bottom they both turned back to face the stairs, Oswyn giving Anora a final bow before turning and making his way back to his seat, which he was very thankful to resume. Varel went down on one knee again, bowed, then rose, remaining bowed over, and backed up to kneel down beside Oswyn's chair.

Varel's hands were visibly shaking as he knelt down, and Oswyn knew his own legs felt as limp as overcooked noodles. "Well done," he murmured approvingly, before turning his attention back to the dais, where Anora was preparing to speak again.

"Documents of betrothal will be drawn up outlining the division of responsibilities between myself as Queen and Arl Oswyn as Prince-Consort, and laying out the proposed inheritances of our eventual issue, as well as any related issues. A formal signing of the resultant agreements will be held at the Satinalia Ball in three week's time. The marriage itself will be held on First Day."

That brought on another outbreak of conversation, it being a very short time frame to go from engagement to marriage. Overall the sounds were those of approval; as Anora had pointed out, many of the nobles were anxious over her age, and doubtless all felt that the sooner she was properly married off and bore an heir, the better.

Anora waited, then signalled for quiet again, and spoke the formal words of thanks to her nobles for their attendance here today, wished well to everyone, called the meeting to a close, and bade everyone farewell, before retreating from the dais through a door behind the thrones. With her gone the meeting was formally over with; not that the nobles made any particular effort to depart. Instead many of them moved down from their seats in the two long galleries to come down and socialize at floor level, while others stayed in their seats, gossiping with friends and neighbours.

There were a considerable amount of congratulations going around, over a dozen of the nobles of both sexes having been there to obtain Crown consent to proposed marriages of either themselves or, in a couple of cases, their heirs. Bann Sighard made his way over to Oswyn's side, and almost everyone present came by at some point to offer congratulations to the two men on their separate betrothals. It was almost three hours after the meeting ended before Oswyn was finally able to make his way from the chamber, and return home to the townhouse with his father.

They had a small, late supper together, Varel and Pierce joining them as well since they too had not eaten since lunch earlier that day. None of them spoke much, all too tired to have any real wish to engage in conversation.

Bann Sighard smiled at Oswyn as the two stopped in the hallway outside, afterwards. "Good-night, Arl Oswyn," he said, and then grinned briefly. "That's going to take some getting used to – you outranking me now."

Oswyn smiled tiredly. "For me, as well – and to get used to the idea that this townhouse, and the castle, are no longer really my home."

Sighard nodded, and reached out to grip Oswyn's upper arm. "You're still my son," he said, voice getting a touch husky. "My home will always be yours."

Oswyn nodded, and the two men exchanged a brief embrace before parting ways, Sighard climbing the stairs to his floor, Pierce trailing after him on his way to his own quarters even higher in the building, while Oswyn and Varel made their way to Oswyn's rooms. Varel helped Oswyn to change out of his fine outfit and into his nightclothes.

Oswyn lay back in bed, and held up his left hand, smiling as he admired the heavy ring on his finger. Varel straightened the bedding over him, then paused. "Should we put that away?"

"No," Oswyn said, and then drew it off, handing it to Varel and gesturing to the nearby night table. "Put it over there, where I can see it," he said, and smiled warmly. "I want to be able to see it as soon as I open my eyes tomorrow. Maybe then this day will begin to feel real, instead of like a dream."

Varel smiled, and did as told.


	38. Chapter 38

If Varel had thought life as Oswyn's servant had been busy before the official engagement to Anora, it was downright placid compared to their life afterwards. From getting up in the morning to going to bed at night – each in turn earlier and later than they had been previously – there was a seemingly never-ending stream of things to be done. Oswyn's new duties and responsibilities as the Arl of Denerim were huge, and occupied most of his day. What time wasn't committed to those had to be spent in social obligations; everyone of any standing wanted to meet and talk with the future Prince-Consort.

There was also the need for Oswyn to establish a household of his own, separate from his father's. Once he and Anora were married he would, of course, spend a lot of time at the castle, but even then he would still require a seat, a place from which to conduct his official business, to function from as the Arl of Denerim rather than the Prince-Consort. The old estate had been destroyed in the Blight, and never rebuilt; Oswyn had no interest in rebuilding it himself, of living in a house built over the place where he'd lost so much.

"It would be more appropriate for me to leave the rebuilding of the estate to whomever follows me as Arl or Arlessa of Denerim," Oswyn said firmly, when asked about his plans. "For now I will merely have the rubble cleared, and the place made over into a park. I will use one of the smaller properties that belong to the Arling."

There were a number of properties within the city that were owned by whomever held the seat, most of them consisting of blocks of housing, places of business or warehouses, the rents from which all went to the Arl. It included the majority of the land within the alienage walls, Oswyn and Varel were both interested to see, not to mention most of the dockside lands and over half the market. The arling extended beyond the city walls, including a sizable portion of farmland and forests for some distance to the west and northwest from the city proper. Beyond those stretched the lands held by the banns who were considered to be subordinate to the Arl of Denerim, including Oswyn's own father.

Oswyn and Varel spent some time taking a look at the more sizable properties belonging to the arling, and Oswyn settled on a large townhouse to the west of the palace – empty since its previous tenant had died in the Blight Year – to be his formal seat. It was close to the palace, but on the other side of the gates from where the old estate was, so he would no longer have to pass by its location. Once he'd reached that decision, it only remained to have the contents of the townhouse removed and shipped off to the last occupant's heir, then make arrangements to have the place refinished and redecorated to his own tastes.

Preparations for the coming wedding also occupied their time; fittings for clothes, not just for Oswyn himself but for all of the servants he'd brought from Dragon's Peak; as he had so few of them he was generous with his invitations, and all of his small household was granted permission to attend, and his Satinalia gifts to them included a promise of a fine outfit for each to wear.

Oswyn and Varel spent Satinalia itself at a grand ball at the palace, Varel attending on Oswyn during the lengthy event, which included among other festivities the formal signing of the prenuptial agreements between Oswyn and Anora. Those had taken some considerable time to draw up, with much consultation between their respective legalists – Oswyn had borrowed his father's lawyer, until such time as he could hire one for his own dealings – as well as consultation with several of Anora's senior nobles to be sure that all were satisfied with the terms covering such eventualities as Anora dying with or without heir, during an heir's minority or majority, and so on. It was, when complete, a very lengthy document, and the reading of it before they signed took most of an hour.

That taken care of, the remainder of the ball had been a very festive occasion. Varel's duties ended once the signing was over, and he was able to enjoy the remainder of the event with Myra, who he'd been allowed to bring. She was wearing one of her best dresses from Kirkwall, and he thought she looked as fine as any noble lady there. They danced until they were tired and out of breath, then sat and watched for a while, sipping glasses of punch and nibbling on finger-foods.

"They look so well together," Myra said softly, nodding toward the low platform where Anora and Oswyn were seated, watching the dancing.

Varel had to agree; seated and at his ease, there was little sign of Oswyn's injuries. He looked fit, handsome and happy, smiling easily as he and Anora talked together while watching the ball, their two equally blond heads bowed together. They had danced together only once, at the beginning of the ball, a slow formal dance that Oswyn had been able to manage without visible difficulty, and he had remained off his feet since, while Anora several times returned to the dance floor as various nobles asked her for a turn. She danced very well, all grace and elegance in the formal pattern dances, and laughed when Arl Teagan invited her out onto the dance floor late in the evening for a spirited number based on a peasant dance, hiking up her skirts and smiling widely as the pair of them galloped through the energetic footwork the dance required.

Fall turned to winter, slowing or stopping the rebuilding work. Thanks to Oswyn's efforts, and the application of a great deal of money to the problem, many of those who'd slept cold since the Blight slept warm this winter, in a warren of temporary shelters that Oswyn had erected on some of the cleared grounds. They were cavernous buildings little better than barracks, but far better than the tents and shanties the displaced been living in until now, and heated at Oswyn's expense using wood carted in from the woodlots he owned outside the city. Morale in the city had improved considerably as a result, especially as Oswyn had made it clear that he would not tolerate merchants profiteering off of the needy; food prices had dropped by anywhere from a quarter to a third, and the poor were grateful.

A week into Haring they moved out of Bann Sighard's townhouse.

* * *

Oswyn let Varel help him down out of the carriage, the bitter cold and a dance he'd attended with Anora the night before having left him feeling stiff and a little sore. He stopped there, leaning on his cane for a moment to admire the house. Its turrets, balconies and cornices draped in a fresh snowfall, it looked almost like something out of a fairytale.

It was built on a square plan, around three sides of a central courtyard. The remaining side was enclosed by a lower wall, pierced with an ornate gate, that gave into the courtyard. A low addition ran off from the western side of the house, and then to the northwest of that was the stables. There was also a small barracks building for guards, which was tucked in between the north wing of the house and the wall that ran around the entire noble's quarter.

Most of Oswyn's servants were already resident in the new house, their presence accounting for the smoke rising from the its chimneys, as well as the fresh snowfall having already been cleared from the courtyard and the low flight of shallow steps that led to the portico-sheltered front door in the west wing. Light shone from several windows, giving the house a welcoming aspect as Oswyn and Varel entered the gate and crossed the courtyard together, followed by the handful of servants who'd remained with them overnight.

Bann Sighard had been pleased to allow Oswyn to take whatever servants he wished to out of Dragon's Peak, as long as they themselves were agreeable to the transfer. He'd kept almost all of the ones he'd brought to Denerim with him, and acquired more, this townhouse and the life he would be living in future needing a far larger staff than his small establishment within his father's townhouse had required. He'd filled most of the higher positions with trusted servants from Dragon's Peak, and hired additional people from within the City, a mix of humans and elves.

There were even a couple of them who were essentially servants to Varel, helping him to carry out his duties, which were increasing already to a point that one man could not possibly handle them all. Oswyn had a dresser now, in charge of seeing to the maintenance of his wardrobe, though it was still Varel who assisted him in the actual changing of clothes. And a lesser secretary to deal with routine correspondence, bookkeeping, and so forth, though it was Varel who accompanied him for tasks such as the taking of notes, kept his appointment book, and brought matters to his attention that needed his personal response. Varel was also still his bodyguard in situations to which he could bring his secretary, but not his guards.

His guard had increased dramatically in size as soon as his and Anora's engagement had become official, a combination guards selected from among the Dragon's Peaks armsmen, additional armsmen he'd acquired in his capacity as Arl of Denerim, as well as a small detachment of Royal Guards charged with seeing that the future Prince-Consort came to no harm. He could go nowhere now without a minimum of four guards in attendance, often more, and his guard-captain – a trustworthy man supplied by Anora, by the name of Kylon – was busy seeing to it that all of his personal guards, regardless of their source, reached and maintained an adequate level of training.

He'd hired other servants too, of course; a much enlarged kitchen staff, including a new head cook hired here in Denerim, Peter and his wife having after much debate decided they preferred to return to Dragon's Peak over remaining in Denerim. They were staying long enough to attend the coming wedding, the wife being more than content to work as an undercook until then, that having been the position she'd held most of her life. Janie, having family in the city, had been happy to stay on with Oswyn, and was now promoted to housekeeper over a sizable force of household servants. One of his father's older grooms was now his stable-master, and had brought an experienced stable-boy from Dragon's Peak along with him, as well as hiring on a pair of young boys here in the city to train up.

He paused again just before the portico, smiling as he looked up at the crest painted on the front gable of it; the differenced emblem that Anora had agreed to. It was still the green-and-white shield-shaped blazon of Denerim, with the green sunburst in the lower field, but the top displayed an upturned crescent flanked by two stars, all in yellow, rather than the three white diamonds of the original crest. He was pleased to have been allowed to keep that reminder of the crest he'd been born to, and more than once had wondered if Bann Tilda's objection had been purely her own idea, or something cooked up between her and Anora. In either case, seeing the familiar moon-and-stars gave his spirit a great lift.

They continued on inside to the front hall, a sizable space that rose two stories and contained a beautifully curved staircase rising to the second floor. Oswyn's quarters were on the ground floor, in the addition. It had been added on some time shortly after the rebellion, and was built to far more modern standards than the remainder of the house. Varel and Myra had a small suite upstairs, as did Kylon, Janie, and the new secretary, whose rooms included his office. The remaining servants were housed in the east wing, which also contained such places as the kitchen, workrooms, storage, and cellars. The guards lived in their barracks, while the stable-master and stable-boys had rooms over the stable. The north wing of the house contained rooms for larger entertainments; a small ballroom, a large dining room, a games room, and a sizable salon.

The front hall was packed with people, all of the servants having gathered to welcome Oswyn to his – and their – new home. He smiled, and took a turn around the room, greeting everyone by name and asking questions of those he knew reasonably well, before thanking them and dismissing them back to their duties.

Varel opened the door to his new quarters, and he walked in and just stood, turning slowly around in place, smile growing as he admired the beautifully redecorated rooms, such a change from the fusty and dust-covered condition they had been in when he'd first toured the house.

"I think I want to just enjoy my rooms for a while," he told Varel. "Get myself settled in. I'll tour the rest of the house later."

"Of course," Varel said, gave him a slight bow, and left, closing the doors behind him.

Doors outside which, Oswyn knew, there would always be a pair of guards on duty, whether or not he was within his rooms. Strange, to find himself so very well-protected now. Stranger yet, to consider the _why_ of it all. A year ago, he would never have been able to imagine that his life would ever improve so drastically. That so much of the pain he'd been living with since the Blight would be gone, that he'd have a _life_ ahead of him; not just continued existence, but something to look forward to.

Three weeks until First Day; not just the first day of the new year, but the first day of his marriage, the first day of his new life. He looked forward to it, and felt happy, as full of anticipation as a child waiting to open his presents on Satinalia or First Day.


	39. Chapter 39

Oswyn held very still, chin lifted slightly, while Varel pinned his sash in place with a large brooch, a ring of gold almost as broad as the elf's palm. A piece on loan from the Crown, it was in the shape of three mabari hounds, the head of each overlaying the hindquarters of the next, the centre of it cut out around their running legs so that the fabric of the sash – green, with a white fringe, the Denerim colours – showed through. Varel, he was amused to notice, was concentrating so hard on getting the brooch perfectly placed that he was holding his breath. He grinned as the elf stepped back with a relieved sigh.

The elderly dresser, who was assisting in his dressing today, stepped forward, offering a tray on which several other pieces of jewellery still waited. Oswyn slipped on the rings himself; his personal signet and his new-made signet as Arl of Denerim on his right hand, the heavy betrothal ring on his left. He stood still again, head cocked slightly to one side, while Varel hooked a heavy pendant earring through his right ear; a piece on loan from his father, a dangling dragon's head of gold holding a spherical star-sapphire in its teeth. He could feel the weight of it tugging on his lobe as Varel stepped back again, reaching for the next item on the tray.

It was a small dagger, just a little longer than the span of his hand from pommel to tip, in an ornately tooled sheath of black leather with white-gold fittings, worked in an interlacing pattern similar to his betrothal ring, the pommel of the dagger set with a cabochon aquamarine almost the exact same shade as the one in the ring . It should have been a full-sized sword, but the unbalancing weight of a real blade would have had him in pain by the end of the lengthy wedding ceremony, so the dagger must suffice as a symbol of his martial skills, such as they were. Levyn had worked miracles of healing to rid him of much of his old pain, but even he could not make Oswyn fit to bear a real weapon for any length of time again.

"I think that's all," Varel said, stepping back and looking Oswyn over from head to toe. He and Oswyn both looked to the dresser for confirmation; he had far more experience with dressing royalty than either of them did, having served King Maric for a number of years, before the King's disappearance at sea.

He, too, looked Oswyn over carefully, then nodded agreement. "I will carry the coat down, to save you the weight of it for now; we will dress you in that just before you go out," he said in his slow, careful voice.

Oswyn nodded, glancing at the article in question where it still hung on a stand nearby. Silk from the north, a heavy pale silvery-grey fabric with a slubbed weave, it would hang below his knees once it was on. It was lined, as well, a heavy quilted lining of pale blue silk and cotton wadding, as it needed to keep him warm all the long way from the palace to the chantry for the wedding and then back again. At least he did not have to walk far in it; they would be in a carriage for the journey. But he would need to stand in it, in the Chantry, and he would be on his feet for quite some time there, without even the aid of his cane.

He walked out to the sitting room of his apartment here in the palace; a set of rooms that connected to the royal suite by a secret passage, he'd been told. It had most often been used by the spouses and, occasionally, the illicit lovers of the sovereign. He suspected that Cailan had made much use of it, to enjoy assignations with his mistresses.

He and Anora had discussed where he should live within the palace, those times when he was staying there rather than in his own townhouse. They had, in the end, decided against him moving into the royal suite with her; both of them greatly valued their privacy, enough to prefer the idea of keeping their households within the palace largely separate, and there was also to be considered the fact that he was a very light sleeper, and unlikely to rest well if someone else was in the room. So... the secondary apartment had been cleaned out and redecorated, and assigned to his use. The passage would allow them go back and forth between each other's bedrooms however they desired in total privacy.

He nodded to the group of people waiting in his sitting room; his attendants, to keep him company until the ceremony. His father was there, and his step-mother, the pair having wed the week before. Nathaniel Howe, dressed like a noble again for once, in an outfit of black and dark navy with the Grey Warden griffon worked in silver on the shoulder. Arl Teagan, with his own fiancee – a wealthy commoner, surprisingly enough, and a talented smith in her own right, that occupation having earned her fortune – were also there, along with Oswyn's milk-mother, his Guard-Captain, and two of the Banns who answered to him as Arl of Denerim, one each male and female. He made a circuit of the room to greet and speak briefly with each of them in turn, hugging both his father and his milk-mother, and bowing over his step-mother's hand, then took a seat to wait until word reached them that it was time to depart.

Anora, he knew, had a similar grouping of attendants, including both Katy and Fergus Cousland, and a selection of nobles from throughout Ferelden, as well as a handful of foreign dignitaries there to witness the ceremony and a few lesser attendants pulled from among her favoured servants. He wondered if she felt as nervous as he did. Likely not, he decided; it was, after all, her second wedding.

It seemed a very long wait, filled with endless small talk, until Zevran entered and announced that Queen Anora's party was ready to depart. Everyone rose to their feet, making hurried final adjustments to their clothing, and then walked downstairs together. They had, of necessity, to go slow, and Oswyn wished – for what he was sure would only be the first of many times – that the apartments were on the ground floor, not two flights up. Then in the front hall they paused briefly again while Varel and the dresser helped him into his coat, as well as a pair of loose, fur-lined gloves to protect his hands from the gold, before going out to the waiting carriages. Most of the carriages were closed, but his was open, so that he could be seen clearly during the ride to the church. His father and step-mother joined him in it, taking the front, rear-facing seat, while Varel sat beside him on the rear bench. They were no sooner seated than the procession began, with his carriage at the front, followed by the ones for his attendants. Anora's procession would wait and leave a little while after they had departed, so that they'd have time to get into position before her arrival.

It was a long ride, all of the way east to the Harbour Bridge, across it to the north, then back west through the marketplace and past where the old chantry had been, before turning north to where the new Chantry Cathedral stood, its grander height dominating the northern half of the city now in a way that the old building never had. The entire route was packed with people turned out to see the procession, and the sound of them calling out and cheering as he passed was like an endless roaring sound. He smiled and waved, and smiled and waved some more, pausing only to accept a hot drink from a flask Varel had brought along before smiling and waving yet again.

The carriage finally rolled to stop in front of the Chantry, and he descended from it, leading his party indoors. The place was packed with people, and he smiled – a real smile this time – and nodded in passing to the small cluster at the back, his invited servants, all dressed in their gifted finery for the event. And then more smiles and nods all the way up to the few rows of empty seats at the front, reserved for his and Anora's attendants. He took his place alone at the very front, Varel quickly scurrying around him to take care of tasks such as removing his gloves and buttoning back the tails of his coat, the front of it carefully opened just wide enough for the sash, brooch and the dagger at his belt to all be suitably on display. That taken care of, Varel quickly retreated to a stool tucked out of sight behind a pillar to one side.

The wait for Anora's arrival was thankfully a short one, her departure from the palace having been very nicely judged; it was only a couple of minutes before they heard the crowds roaring as she arrived outside, then she led her party in. There was a brief pause at the door while her own outfit was hastily repaired from the disarray of travel, and then she proceeded up the aisle toward him.

She was a vision. For a winter wedding she'd wanted winter colours; her dress was of white silk shot with pale blue, giving it blue shadows like new-fallen snow. Her hair was unbound in a rippling golden mass down her back, held back from her face by a narrow diadem of white-gold filigree, with faceted clear crystals suspended from delicately arched wires along its length, similar crystals encrusting the hems of her outfit, sewn on in sparkling patterns. She wore a large shawl draped loosely round her shoulders, the cobweb-soft folds of it fastened at the front with a brooch that was a match for her diadem.

The fine white wool shawl had been a recent gift of his to her; Myra had worked feverishly to have it made in time, after he'd requested it of her, both of them knowing full well that having the Queen herself wear a ring shawl for her royal wedding would ensure a lucrative market for the rare veils for years to come. The Queen had been delighted enough by its beauty and fineness – especially after Oswyn had demonstrated the ring-test with it – to insist on meeting the maker, and had given Myra a delicate silver ring from her own hand as a token of thanks for her hard work; a ring, and a place among her lesser attendants for the day, once she'd learned that Myra was Varel's wife.

Anora's eyes were calm, her features perfectly composed, as she approached the front, but there was an extra lightness and grace to her movements that told Oswyn that she was happy. As she took her place and her attendants arranged the folds of her full skirt and long train before withdrawing, she met his eyes, and the slightest of smiles lifted her lips for a moment before she looked away again.

The Grand Cleric herself came out to conduct their wedding. It followed the same form as all weddings – even of the alienage wedding Oswyn had attended – the only real difference being in the sheer length of it. The initial reading from the Chant of Light was lengthy, carried out by three priests each in turn. After that came the speech about the rights and responsibilities of marriage, which the Grand Cleric spent far more time in delivering using far more words than Mother Perpetua had, though the essence of it was much the same. Then a second reading from the Chant, this time accompanied by the Chantry choir, their pure voices rising in beautiful sound, followed by a shorter reading, which everyone gathered sang along with. The people waiting outside sang too, their massed voices audible even through the closed doors. Oswyn wondered if it was just the people in the square outside who sang, or if it was everyone packed together along the route throughout the whole city. It brought a shiver to his spine, the thought of how many hundreds, possibly even thousands of voices were raised in that brief song. No wonder the Chantry said that the maker's attention would return when the Chant could be heard rising from everywhere throughout Thedas; if just this relative handful of people made such a powerful sound, how could any being resist an entire world in full voice?

While the people sang, the Grand Cleric signed for Anora and he to join hands, then carefully tied them together with a length of pale blue ribbon, finishing with the extravagantly looping knot that was traditional. A second priest came up – he was bemused to see it was Mother Perpetua – and passed a lit censor to the Grand Cleric, who circled around them, giving them a thorough censing with the incense-sweet smoke before passing it back to her. The singing ended; the Grand Cleric spoke a lengthy blessing over them.

His legs were beginning to protest the long time on his feet; he shifted his weight slightly, but that made things no better. Anora glanced toward him, then squeezed his hand, just slightly. Finally the blessing ended. They lifted their bound and clasped hands up, in clear view of everyone in the Chantry, each taking a hold of a loop of the complicatedly knotted ribbon in their free hand, and then gently tugged. The ribbon was slick, satiny, and slid easily, loop upon loop pulling free. And then, as it dropped loose from their hands... Anora smiled widely, as did Oswyn, seeing a knot forming in the middle of the length of ribbon. Whoops and cheers from the watching audience greeted it, good sign for a long and happy marriage as a knot was held to be.

"You may kiss," the Grand Cleric murmured, beneath the rising noise, a pleased smile on her own aged face.

Anora turned and looked at him, chin lifting slightly, the faintest of smiles lifting one corner of her lips. He smiled back much more widely, as the two of them lowered their raised hands back down, the ribbon hanging loose between them, then bowed respectfully to her.

"My Queen," he said softly, then straightened up and closed the distance between them, and kissed his wife.


	40. Chapter 40

The cheering that had followed Oswyn on his way to the chantry was as nothing compared to the sound that greeted Oswyn and Anora as they rode back to the palace together afterwards; screams and cheers, a deafening roar, a wall of sound that didn't stop, that they felt in their own lungs, in their bones. He found himself grinning in delight at the warm reception their marriage was being given; even when their carriage was halfway across the Harbour Bridge they could hear the sound rising ahead of them, and still echoing through the city streets behind them.

It was a relief to finally turn in through the gates of the place, to go indoors, where the sound was muted, though still audible. Oswyn was feeling sore and drained of energy now; thankfully that had been allowed for in the day's schedule, and he and Anora parted for a while, she to go upstairs and relax and refresh herself, he to a small room on the ground floor with a bed and Levyn. He napped for an hour, having no problem falling asleep thanks to Levyn's spells, and while he slept the mage did some light healing on him, so that he woke feeling relaxed and ready to continue rather then sore. Varel was there with a strong-brewed tea for him to drink, after which the elf set his clothes to rights once again before they left the room.

Varel conducted him around through back hallways, deserted apart from a handful of guards and servants, to the small private audience chamber – a very richly-decorated sitting room – in back of the throne room. Anora was already there, sitting and sipping a glass of wine while talking earnestly with Katherine. They both smiled warmly at him when he entered – using his cane now, the same star-sapphire topped one that had been Katy's gift to him – and both rose to their feet, Anora greeting him with a kiss. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Much refreshed," he told her, and smiled at Katy, bowing in her direction. "Thank you for loaning Levyn to me again. I don't know if I could have managed to get through today without him."

She smiled. "I'm glad I could help. And now I'd better go take my place before you two join the festivities," she said, and left through the door Oswyn had entered by.

"Sit," Anora said, gesturing at a nearby chair and resuming her own. "There's still a little while left until we need to enter. Wine?"

"Thank you," he said, and waited while a servant poured and handed him a glass. He sipped at it, studying Anora. The delicate diadem and matching brooch she'd been wearing earlier were gone, the diadem replaced with a coronet in the shape of a band of gold leaves and white gold flowers, the heart of each bloom set with a different colour of gem, the silvery metal picking up and reflecting its colour so that it seemed each flower was tinted a different shade. She still had the shawl, but unbrooched now, the length of it draped over her arms instead of being wrapped around her shoulders.

She took note of his regard, smiling and raising one eyebrow slightly, her expression almost challenging, and then gave him an appraising head-to-toe look that made him blush. She laughed, then set down her wine. "Come, we should go in," she said, voice warm with amusement. He rose as well, and offered her his arm. They walked over the stately double doors that gave onto the throne room. She nodded to a guard, who cracked one door open and talked quietly to someone on the other side, then stepped aside, hand still resting on the door handle, a second guard moving to take hold of the handle of the other leaf.

There was the sound of the butt of a ceremonial pole-arm being struck three times against the floor to draw attention. A silence quickly fell, followed by a flourish of trumpets. The guards stepped further back, opening the doors, and the pair of them walked forward and around one side of the paired thrones.

"Her Royal Majesty Queen Anora of Ferelden, Teryna of Gwaren, and His Highness Oswyn, Arl of Denerim, bid you attend!" a herald bellowed out.

There was a great deal of applause and cheering – nothing like at the volume of what had occurred outside. Anora let it continue for some few minutes before raising a hand for silence. Once she had it, Anora went through a brief ceremony of investiture, formally assigning Oswyn the title of Prince-Consort, and setting a circlet on his head, an narrow band of interlaced gold. After that they moved to the front of the dais, and the guests began lining up in order to precedence to approach them and offer congratulations on their marriage. Many of the guests had gifts for them, particularly the foreign dignitaries. Where it was a small, easily portable gift, such as the chest full of gems and small ingots of precious metals that the dwarven emissary from Orzammar brought to them as a gift from King Bhelen Aeducan, the gift was brought forward and shown to them before being taken off to be placed on display in a large side-room. Gifts that couldn't be brought inside – a pair of horses from Antiva, a fine carriage from Nevarra, a bull and herd of cows from Rivain – were usually represented by either a painting of the gift in question, or a scroll describing it in detail. The ceremony was lengthy; Oswyn knew he wasn't going to be able to remain on his feet for the entire thing. Thankfully allowance had been made for that, too; when he began to feel too sore to continue standing, a servant carried out a tall stool for him to perched on at Anora's side, the ceremony continuing on without interruption.

Once the congratulations and gift-giving were over with they led the way to the adjacent banquet hall, where a feast waited for them and their guests. Feasting that was also happening out in the city itself, where the Crown had supplied plentiful oxen and sheep to be roasted in public spaces throughout the city, with the meats to be distributed freely to anyone who wished some.

Their own feast consisted of considerably more than just roasted meats, course after course being carried in and served. Bowls of thick vegetable soup, baked fishes as long as a man was tall, trenchers piled with stewed and roasted meats, vegetable pies rich with saffron and eggs, a great gilded marzipan subtlety in the shape of a charging mabari. On and on, through to individual desserts of apples roughly minced and folded together with cinnamon, soft creamy cheese and eggs, then baked in a crisp shell of butter, crushed nuts, oatmeal, and maple sugar. The uneaten remnants, Oswyn knew, would be gathered in great baskets and distributed throughout the city as well; the feasting would likely continue until late in the night.

After the dinner there was a dance. He led Anora out for a single dance, as he'd done at Satinalia, and then they parted to take other partners. His injuries meant he had to sit out all of the longer or more energetic dances, but he still ended up dancing a number of times that evening; with Katy Cousland, with the wife of the emissary from Antiva, with his stepmother, with Bann Alfstanna – herself restricted in her dancing by her increasing girth, the Bann being pregnant with her second child – and Bann Tilda and the future Arlessa Kaitlyn and more. And again with Anora at the end of the evening, after which she bid their guests good-night and her attendants took her away upstairs to her rooms.

He remained downstairs a little while longer, while their guests began departing, and then his own attendants helped him upstairs to his own room, to bathe and change before going to join Anora.

* * *

He had been changed into his night-clothes and robe for some time, sitting and talking quietly with his remaining few attendants – his father, Nate, and Varel – when a muted bell rang from the direction of his bedchamber.

Bann Sighard smiled. "That would be our signal to retire," he said, and rose to his feet.

They all stood. Sighard gave Oswyn a fierce hug, blinking back tears as he released his son. "Be happy," he said, voice husky.

Nate reached out to squeeze Oswyn's arm, simply nodding encouragingly to him before turning away. Varel saw the pair of them to the door, closing it behind them, and then picked up a branch of candles and lit the way into the bedroom. He set the candles down on a small table, bowed to Oswyn, and went back out to the sitting room, closing the doors between the two rooms. Oswyn could hear him moving around for a short time – collecting wine glasses and snuffing candles, he supposed from the faint sounds – and then he too departed, retreating to his own room elsewhere in Oswyn's apartments. Only then did Oswyn tug on the bell-pull that hung half-concealed behind a fold of drapery near the bed. He could not hear the bell it sounded, though Anora had explained that it would ring a bell in her room to let her know he was there and ready.

The adjoining doors that sealed either end of the connecting hallway could only be unlocked and opened from the royal apartment side; he waited quietly for her to open the way. It was only a couple of minutes before a panel swung open in his wall, revealing her. She wore a long white nightgown, embroidered in white and fastened around the waist with a narrow gold cord. Her hair was down, the rippled cloud of it back-lit by the candles that lit her own bedroom at the far end of the short hallway. She paused a moment on the threshold, looking gravely at him, then smiled.

"Will you join me, or shall I join you?" she asked softly.

He swallowed. "I am content with either," he said.

She nodded, then turned away, and led the way to her bedroom. Following her along the carpeted hallway, he found himself thinking of the use to which it and his apartments had most recently been put – Cailan visiting his series of mistresses – and wondered if Anora, too, was thinking of her first husband, and all the manifold ways in which their marriage had gone wrong, ending the lifelong friendship between the pair of them. He prayed, briefly but fervently, that his own marriage to Anora would only ever be a source of happiness to them both; that their friendship would last, and deepen.

Anora stopped once she had reached her bedroom, turning to face him as he stepped out of the passageway. She studied his face intently, then looked away and stepped past him to shut the door. He turned as well, waiting for some sign from her of what to do now, feeling increasingly nervous. A nervousness that verged on dread; as much as he didn't want to think of his time in Howe's dungeons, memories of that terrible time were seeping into his consciousness now. How could they not, when Howe had told him in such horrifyingly graphic detail of his own plans for a wedding night with Anora? His hands began to tremble.

"Come, let us sit and talk for a while," Anora said, gesturing to a pair of chairs nearby, to either side of a small table. A tray rested on it, holding a pair of thick ceramic mugs – plain, heavy things, more suited to a peasant's cottage than the palace – from which steam was rising. He found himself smiling at the sight of them, recalling a line in one of the books on tactics he's read.

"Avoid illogical preference. Do not insist on fine porcelain when thick earthenware will hold the heat of the tea better, or on gaudy glittering display when a good sharp sword is what is really needed," he quoted.

Anora laughed, and moved to sit down, one leg curling under her. "My father's words," she said, sounding pleased. "We used to often sit together and talk in the evening, in his rooms. And drink our tea out of these mugs. Which _do_ hold the heat for longer than fine porcelain does," she added, a dimple appearing at one corner of her mouth.

"I am honoured that you share them with me," he said, and lowered himself into the other chair, then picked up the mug closest to him and peered into it. He grimaced when he saw it was the familiar willow bark and chamomile medicinal tea that Varel brought him most nights.

Anora laughed as she picked up her own mug. "Is that actually as vile as your expression suggests?"

"Unfortunately yes. It's very bitter, though it does usually leave me feeling better for a while afterwards."

"Drink up then, I want you feeling as well as you can tonight," she told him. An actual smirk crossed her face for a moment, quickly hidden behind her own mug.

He snorted, but drank. The heat and familiar bitter taste relaxed him a little, the tremor leaving his hands. They talked, briefly, about the book in which he'd read the words he'd quoted, Anora keeping them on safely neutral topics until both their mugs were almost empty.

She leaned over and set down her own mug, curling up more comfortably in the chair, and leaned against the back, smiling calmly at him. "Let us be frank with each other. This will likely be a difficult night for you to face, I know," she said. "I will begin by saying that I do not mind if we do nothing more exciting than share a bed without intercourse, or even just talk for a while and then sleep in separate beds. I am willing to wait, until you are ready to do anything further; we have time. We have a lifetime together ahead of us, and I would prefer we start it off with becoming comfortable with each other, over forcing ourselves to any act that one or the other of us is not yet ready for. If you wish to try to do further, we can try. If you wish to stop at any time, we can stop. I ask only that you be as open and honest with me as you can be about your fears, your wants, your needs."

Oswyn had to set down his own mug, her simple words shaking him to the core. As when she'd examined his injuries so many months ago now, the acceptance her words represented touched him deeply. "Thank you," he said, voice husky. "I... cannot express how much your patience means to me. How much all of this – and you – mean to me. I would like to try, though it will be difficult, as you have said."

"Then tell me what you wish to do; what you feel ready to try. Tell me, too, of anything I should _not_ do, if you know of any such things."

Oswyn flushed, and looked away. "In the line of being frank – most of what I fear, you're of the wrong sex to even attempt. Though..." He stopped, and drew a long shuddering breath before continuing. "Yes, there are many things I will find difficult. Especially anything that makes me feel as if I am being restrained, or... or f-forced."

He had to stop and close his eyes, his hands tightening into fists as he pushed the flood of evil memories back. Once he'd regained his composure enough to do so, he turned and looked at her, unable to prevent himself from fearing what her reaction to his words might be.

She was sitting in the same position as before, head still resting against the back of her chair, face still composed. "Let us go very slowly, then," she said, and moved her hand, placing it palm-up on the table between them. "Why don't we start by holding hands while we talk, and talk of some better subject for a while."

He managed a very weak smile, then reached across and set his hand in hers. "What shall we talk about?"

She smiled. "I don't know. Your plans for Denerim? But no, we've talked of that so much already... I know, tell me which gifts stood out to you the most from what we were given today. Either because you liked them, or thought they were especially ridiculous."

Oswyn found a brief grin crossing his face. "Like the pair of masks the Orlesian emissary gave us?"

"Maker, yes! Horrible things; as if we'd ever have any use for them, either," she added with a disparaging sniff. "The Free Marches' emissaries were all much more thoughtful in what they gave us as gifts."

"I liked the pair of horses; I'm looking forward to seeing them in person."

Anora nodded agreement. They spent some time discussing various gifts, Oswyn soon relaxing again. After a while they fell silent. Anora was leaning forward now, one elbow propped on the chair arm and chin braced up that hand. She smiled at him, then rose to her feet, pulling lightly on his hand. He stood as well. She moved closer, still holding his hand, her other hand rising to rest lightly on his shoulder.

They kissed.

Not a long kiss, though longer than their kiss in the chantry had been. A gentle kiss; a tentative kiss; a questioning kiss. Anora smiled, and pressed herself up against him just a little when it ended. "Another?" she asked.

He nodded, and they kissed again. They spent a while in doing nothing but that; just trading brief kisses back and forth, mostly on the mouth, until she whimsically kissed the tip of his nose, and then he kissed her cheek. The next time their lips actually met, some minutes later, her tongue tickled at them, asking entrance. He flinched away, then flushed.

"Sorry, not... not that," he said.

She just nodded, and gave him a fast, light hug, and then kissed him again, on the corner of the mouth. He released a breath he hadn't even realized he'd begun to hold, and hugged her too, thankful that she did not question why. They returned to their kissing.

"I can't stand up much longer," he had to point out after a while, a little regretfully. Anora smiled, one corner of her mouth lifting higher than the other, which made her dimple reappear, and led him over to the bed. At first they just sat down on the edge of it, still trading kisses, as well as light touches now. He began to feel flushed and excited, in an enjoyable way, and didn't object when her hand slid up underneath his nightshirt before coming to rest against his back. She had smooth, soft hands, just the tiniest bit of callous on the fingertips of her right hand betraying that she still kept in practise with her bow. He kissed her, then put his hand on her knee, not quite daring to lift the skirt of her nightgown.

She seemed to sense his hesitation; she laughed, a nice laugh, an understanding one, and tugged it up herself, leaving the cloth pooled across her upper thighs, his hand resting on warm flesh instead of warm fabric. Their touches grew gradually more exploratory, more intimate. Anora, he could tell, was holding back; usually waiting to touch him in some place until he had already touched her in a like location. Letting him take the lead in how fast and how they went. The knowledge was reassuring.

"May I see all of you?" she asked some time later, the two of them now lying side by side on the bed, his hand touching her breast, her own fingertips stroking lightly against his inner thigh. He paused, then nodded, slipping his hand free and sitting up as she removed her hand from where it had been. He emerged from his nightshirt to see her sitting up too, removing her gown. They exchanged smiles, and he just sat there for a moment, arms still trapped in his shirt, admiring her. Then blushed, as he realized what he was doing, and hurriedly finished removing the shirt. She smiled, and leaned over to kiss him again, then sat back and studied him. It didn't bother him, being looked at by her; the way she examined him was neither overly cool nor with too-great interest; more evaluative than anything. The way he'd look at a blasted wasteland, thinking of how to best clear the rubble and replace it with new streets and buildings. He couldn't help but smile, thinking how he was indeed a blasted wasteland, one that was finally being reclaimed. By himself, most of all.

She lay back down again after a while, patting the space beside her, and he moved close. Their touches were more hesitant for a while, her hands lightly skimming over his skin, exploring the scarring, the subtle deformities that his mistreatment had left him with. He touched her more reverently. Even now, in bed together, it didn't feel quite real.

_I am touching the Queen of Ferelden_ , he found himself think. _Anora is my wife. I am her husband. We will have children together, Maker willing._

He found himself tearing up suddenly, momentarily overwhelmed with emotion. Anora hastily removed her hands, paused, then hugged him, as well as she could in a recumbent position. He tensed for a moment, then relaxed into it, reminding himself over and over again that he was safe here, with her. The tears were brief, and afterwards he kissed her, first in silent thanks, and then with increasing heat.

Things went very well after that, the only bobble they encountered some time later being them finding a position they were both equally comfortable with; he did not like having someone draped over him, but his joints would not allow some more ambitious position. Anora solved the problem quite simply, by sitting up and straddling him, keeping most of her weight on her own knees. Watching her as she moved was... hypnotic. The rolling of her hips, the sway of her breasts, the movement of her hair, strands of it sticking to her sweat-slicked flesh. She smiled down at him, all warm mischief in her smile and eyes now, then pushed her hair back with both hands, gathering it at the nap of the neck and twisting it loosely around one fist to keep it there. She bent down, back arching gracefully as she braced herself with her free hand. He rose enough on his elbows to meet her, and they kissed again, a long kiss. She nibbled tentatively on his bottom lip, which he found he liked. At some point she released her hair, the mass of it tumbling down around them like a tent, so that she could brace herself more comfortably over them, their kissed growing more and more heated, though never any deeper.

He grinned and lay back down as she straightened back up at last, the pace of her movements increasing noticeably. When she cried out her pleasure a little later, his own completion was not far behind.

He cried again then, suddenly and violently, great racking sobs that verged on the hysterical. When it did not stop within a few minutes she rose and pulled her gown back on, and disappeared briefly, returning with Varel. They sat him up, and Varel gave him a measured dose of his medicine. Both of them comforted him, until the torrent of tears ended.

"Sorry," he croaked, when it was over. He felt thick-headed now, only in part due to the numbing effects of the medicine, and very tired.

"Do not be," Anora told him, and hugged him again. "Zevran said you might react so; it is like lancing an infected wound, he told me, you must release the foul stuff inside before true healing can begin."

"Will you stay here, or do you prefer to return to your own bed for the remainder of the night?" Varel asked.

He considered the question, then smiled at Anora, reaching out to take her hand in his. "For tonight I will stay," he said.

Varel smiled, and bowed to them, then retreated back into Oswyn's apartments.

* * *

Oswyn slept surprisingly soundly the rest of the night, only waking once or twice when Anora's nighttime movements disturbed his own sleep. He was surprised when he woke the next morning to find himself alone in the big bed; she'd somehow slid out without waking him.

He rolled over and looked around. She was still in the room, still dressed again in the long white nightgown, sitting on the windowsill and looking out it as she brushed out her long hair. The sunlight streamed in through the clear panes, making the gown glow, turning her hair to bright gold. He caught his breath; the sight of her like this on their first morning together would, he was sure, be a memory he would treasure the rest of his life.

Her head turned, and she smiled warmly as she saw that he was awake. She set down her brush and rose, walking over to the bed and sitting down on the edge of it, leaning over to kiss him as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do.

"How are you feeling this morning?" she asked.

He considered the question only briefly before answering. "Better," he told her.

Only the first of many mornings on which that was true.


End file.
